
^ PN^loo 

Book .*Q &■ 



CLASSICAL SPEAKER 



CHARLES K. DILLAWAY, A. M. 



INSTRUCTER IN THE PUBLIC LATIN SCHOOL, BOSTON. 



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DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS, to wit . 

District Clerk's Office. 
BE IT REMEMBERED, That on the twenty-fourth day of Ju^ 
ly, A. D. 1830, in the fifty-fifth year of the Independence of the 
United States of America, Lincoln & Edmands, of the said 
district, have deposited in this office the title of a Book, the right 
whereof they claim as Proprietors, in the words following, to wit : 

u The Classical Speaker. By Charles K. Dillaway, A. M. In- 
structer in the Public Latin School, Boston." 

In Conformity to the Act of the Congress of the United States, 
entitled, " An Act for the encouragement of Learning, by securing 
the copies of Maps, Charts, and Books, to the Authors and Propri- 
etors of such copies during the times therein mentioned;" and also 
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Benefits thereof to the Arts of Designing, Engraving and Etching 
Historical, and other Prints." 

JNO. W. DAVIS, 
Clerk of the District of Massachusetts. 



70/ 



PREFACE. 



The dialogues which form the characteristic feature of the 
volume now offered to the public, have been selected to sup- 
ply a marked deficiency in the school books for declamation. 
They are believed to be adapted to the various tastes and 
capacities of boys in our high schools, and have been chiefly 
extracted from authors of acknowledged merit, but not usu- 
ally found upon the shelves of a private library. The editor 
has endeavoured to give as much freshness as possible to the 
collection by admitting those pieces only which have never 
appeared in similar publications. He now submits it to the 
public under the hope that its merits may entitle it to a fa- 
vourable reception. 

BOSTON, JULY 10, 1830, 



CONTENTS 



DIALOGUES. 



Page 

Virgil, Horace, and Scaliger the Elder, Lord Lyttleton. 5 

Procida and Raimond, Mrs. Hemans. 7 

Dogberry, Verges, Sexton, the Watch, Con- 

rade, and Borachio, Shakspeare. 9 

Bertuccio Faliero and Doge, Lord Byron. 13 

King of Scotland and Athol, ........ i Smollett. 15 

Cicero, Catiline, and Senators, , . . Rev. Geo. Croly. 18 

Sir Francis Wronghead and Manly, . . Colley Cibber. 22 

iEmilius, Titus, and Varus, John Home. 25 

Cicero and Lord Chesterfield, V. Knox. 27 

Montalba, Guido, Procida, and Raimond, Mrs. Hemans. 31 

Sir Joseph Banks and Peter Pindar, . John Wolcott. 35 

Dr. Johnson and Mr. Gibbon, . . Sir Joshua Reynolds. 40 

Rienza and Angelo, Miss Mitford. 46 

Snug, Bottom, Flute, Quince, and Starve- 
ling, Shakspeare. 49 

Bassanio, Shylock, and Antonio, Ibid. 52 

Barford and Torrent, George Colman. 57 

Sebastian and Dorax, Dryden. 59 

Antony and Ventidius, Ibid. 64 

Procida and Raimond, Mrs. Hemans. 70 

Acres and David, R. B. Sheridan. 73 

Wallenstein and Count Tertsky, . . S. T. Coleridge. 76 

Dr. Ollapod and Sir Charles Cropland, George Colman. 80 

Alvar and Ordonio, . , S. T. Coleridge. 84 

Southey and Porson, Walter S. Landor. 87 

Octavio and Maximin, S. T. Coleridge. 91 

Richard I. and Abbot of Boxley, . . . W. S. Landor. 96 

Mr. Oldbuck, Lovel, and Edie Ochiltree, Walter Scott 99 



VI CONTENTS. 

Page 

Oliver Cromwell and Walter Noble, . . W. S. Landor. 105 

Ethwald and Alwy, Joanna Baillie. 108 

Catiline and Aurelius, Rev. Geo. Croly. 112 

FalstafF, Shallow, Silence, Bardolph, Bull- 
calf, Wart, Mouldy, and Feeble, . . . Shakspeare. 115 

Hereulf and Thane, Joanna Baillie. 120 

Sir Anthony Absolute and Captain Abso- 
lute, R. B. Sheridan. 121 

Octavio and Maximin, S. T. Coleridge. 126 

Sir Lucius O'Trigger and Bob Acres, R. B. Sheridan. 128 

Novall, Romont, and Charmi, Massinger. 133 

Beverley and Fable, Geo. Colmcm. 135 

Wolfort and Hubert, Beaumont. 140 

Latimer and Lovel, . Ben Jonson. 143 

Orlando and Adam, Shakspeare. 147 

Dogberry, Verges, and the Watch, Ibid. 149 

Selim and Edward, Thomson. 154 

King of the Sandwich Islands, Mr. Peel, 

Mr. Croker, and Interpreter, . . . . W. S. Landor. 157 

William Wallace and Edward I Ibid. 164 

Rembrandt, Dutch Trader, and 

Frank, Blackwood's Magazine. 169 

Prince and Cesario, Barry Cornwall. 173 

Dr. Johnson and Richard Savage, Blackwood's Magazine. 179 

Adam Smith and Highland Laird, Ibid. 184 

Masaniello and Genuino, B. S. Ingeman. 188 

Rampsinitis, Pharaoh, Moses, .... Anonymous. 192 

Procida, Montalba, Raimond, and Guido, Mrs. Hemans. 198 

Ben Jonson and Drummond, . Blackwood's Magazine. 208 

King of Spain and a Dissector, ...... Ibid. 213 

Eribert and Anselmo, Mrs. Hemans. 217 

Moses, Caleb, Jochani, Mamri, and Ramp- 
sinitis, Anonymous. 223 

Machiaveland Jerome, . . . Blackwood's Magazine. 229 

Alberto and Theodore, Anonymous. 235 

Belshazzar, Imlah, and Adonijah, Rev. H. H. Milman. 242 

Shenstone and Mr. Ludgate, . Blackwood's Magazine. 252 

Galileo and a Monk in the Inquisition, .... Ibid. 257 

Henry 4th, and Sir Arnold Savage, W. S. Landor. 260 

Saladin, Malek Adhel and Attendant, Lon. JV. M. Mag. 262 



CONTENTS. Vll 

SPEECHES, &c. 

Page 

Extract from Speech in Reply to Mr. Hayrie, 

1830, Webster. 11 

„ Catiline, Rev. Geo. Croly. 20 

„ Speech on the Public Lands* 1830, . Hayne. 30 

„ Discourse at Plymouth, 1829, . W. Sullivan. 44 

„ Marino Faliero, Lord Byron. 55 

„ Speech in Reply to Mr. Hayne, 1830, Webster. 68 

„ The North American Review, Edivard Everett. 74 

„ Raab Kiuprili, S. T. Coleridge. 83 

„ Speech on the War with France, . Canning. 93 

„ Speech on the Catholic Question, . . . Ibid. 95 

„ Rienzi, Miss Mitford. 104 

„ Speech in Reply to Mr. Everett, Cambreleng. 110 

„ Oration at Charlestown, July 4, 1824, E Everett. 118 

„ Speech in Reply to Mr. Hayne, 1830, Webster. 124 

„ The Siege of Valencia, .... Mrs. Hemans. 131 

„ Jugurtha, Rev. C. Wolfe. VS8 

„ Address before the Historical Society, . . Ibid. 145 

„ Ringhan Gilhaize, John Gait. 151 

„ Election Discourse, 1830, . W. E. Channing. 161 

„ The same, Ibid. 163 

„ Quentin Durward, Sir Walter Scott. 168 

„ Speech, Earl of Moira. 171 

„ Discourse at Salem, 1828, Story. 177 

„ Speech on the Union with Ireland, . . . Pitt. 182 
,, Knickerbocker's History of New 

York, Washington Irving. 186 

„ Inaugural Discourse, 1819, Prof. Channing. 191 

„ West Indian Controversy, Blackwood' 's Magazine. 196 
„ Speech on Unlawful Associations in 

Ireland, Canning. 201 

„ Speech on the Portuguese Expedition, . Ibid. 203 
„ The Monkey Emancipator, Blackwood's Mag. 205 
„ An article on Milton, . . . Edinburgh Review. 211 
„ Speech on the Foreign Policy of Eng- 
land, Brougham. 215 

„ Speech on the Catholic Question, 1828, North. 219 

„ The same, Ibid. 221 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

_ Page 

Extract from Rampsimtis describing the Plague 

of darkness to Pharaoh, . . Anonymous. 227 

„ SammaePs Address to the fallen Angels, Ibid. 231 

„ The same, Ibid. 237 

„ Speech on the Catholic Question, 1828, North. 237 

„ Belshazzar, Rev. H. H. Milman. 239 

„ Belshazzar during the Conflagration 

of Babylon, Ibid. 241 

„ Death of Isaiah, David Lindsay. 243 

„ Titus before Jerusalem, . Rev. H. H. Milman. 246 

„ Speech on the Catholic Question, 1829, Peel. 248 

„ The same, Ibid. 250 

„ " The reigning Vice, a Satire," Blackwood's Mag. 255 

„ Oration at Boston, July 5, 1830, A. H. Everett. 267 

„ Character of Sir Hudibras, . . . S. Butler. 269 
„ Address at Charlestown on the second Centen- 
nial Anniversary of the arrival of Governor 

Winthrop, Edward Everett. 271 



THE 



CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



SECTION L 



YIRGIL HORACE MERCURY SCALIGER THE ELDER, 

Lord Lyitleton. 

Virgil. My dear Horace, your company is my greatest 
delight, even in the Elysian fields. No wonder it was so 
when we lived together in Rome. Never had man so gen- 
teel, so agreeable, so easy a wit, or a temper so pliant to the 
inclinations of others in the intercourse of society. 

Horace, To be so praised by Virgil, would have put 
me in Elysium while I was alive. But I know your mod- 
esty will not suffer me, in return for these encomiums, to 
speak of your character. Supposing it as perfect as your 
poems, you would think, as you did of them, that it wanted 
correction. 

Virgil Don't talk of my modesty. How much greater 
was yours, when you disclaimed the name of a poet, you 
whose odes are so noble, so harmonious, so sublime 1 

Horace. I felt myself too inferior to the dignity of that 
name. 

Virgil. 1 think you did like Augustus, when he refused 
to accept the title of king, but kept all the power with 
which it was ever attended. 

Horace. Well : — I will not contradict you ; and (to say 
the truth) I should do it with no very good grace, because 
in some of my odes I have not spoken so modestly of my 
own poetry as in my epistles. But who is this shade that 
Mercury is conducting ? I never saw one that stalked with 
so much pride, or had such ridiculous arrogance expressed 
in his looks ! 

Virgil. They come towards us. Hail, Mercury ! What 
is this stranger with you ! 

Mercury. His name is Julius Caesar Scaliger ; and he 
is by profession a critic. 

Horace. Julius Caesar Scaliger ! He was, I presume, a 
dictator in criticism. 

B 



6 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Mercury. Yes, and he has exercised his sovereign power 
over you. 

Horace. I will not presume to oppose it. I had enough 
of following Brutus at Philippi. 

Mercury. Talk to him a little : He'll amuse you ; I 
brought him to you on purpose. 

Horace. Virgil, do you accost him. I cannot do it with 
proper gravity. I shall laugh in his face. 

Virgil. Sir, may I ask for what reason you cast your 
eyes so superciliously upon Horace and me ? I don't re- 
member that Augustus ever looked down upon us with such 
an air of superiority when we were his subjects. 

Scaliger. He was only a sovereign over your bodies, 
and owed his power to violence and usurpation. But I have 
from nature an absolute dominion over the wit of all au- 
thors, who are subjected to me as the greatest of critics or 
Jiy per critics. 

Virgil. Your jurisdiction, great sir, is very extensive : 
and what judgments have you been pleased to pass upon us? 

Scaliger. Is it possible you should be ignorant of my 
decrees. I have placed you, Virgil, above Homer. 

Horace. And I suppose you were very peremptory in 
your decisions. 

Scaliger. Peremptory ! ay. If any man dared to con- 
tradict my opinions, I called him a dunce, a rascal, a villain, 
and frightened him out of his wits. 

Virgil. But what said others to this method of disputa- 
tion? 

Scaliger. They generally believed me, because of the 
confidence of my assertions ; and thought I could not be so 
insolent, or so angry, if I were not absolutely sure of being 
in the right. 

Horace. Have not I heard, that you pretended to derive 
your descent from the princes of Verona ? 

Scaliger. Pretended ! Do you presume to deny it ? 

Horace. Not I indeed. Genealogy is not my science. 
If you should claim to descend in a direct line from king 
Midas, I would not dispute it. 

Scaliger. When I give praise, I give it liberally, to show 
my royal bounty. But I generally blame, to exert all the 
vigour of my censorian power, and keep my subjects in 
awe. 

Horace. You did not confine your sovereignty to poets; 
you exercised it, no doubt, over all other writers. 

Scaliger. I was a poet, a philosopher, a statesman, an 
orator, an historian, a divine ; without doing the drudgery of 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 7 

any of these, but only censuring those who did, and showing 
thereby the superiority of my genius over them all. 

Horace. Pray, Mercury, how do you intend to dispose 
of this august person ? You cannot think it proper to let 
him remain with us. He must be placed with the demi- 
gods ; he must go to Olympus. 

Mercury. Be not afraid. He shall not trouble you long. 
I brought him hither, to divert you with the sight of an 
animal you never had seen, and myself with your surprise. 
He is the chief of all the modern criticks, the most re- 
nowned captain of that numerous and dreadful band. Come 
hither, Scaliger. By this touch of my caduceus, I give 
thee power to see things as they are, and among others, 
thyself. Look, gentlemen, how his countenance is fallen 
in a moment ! Hear what he says ; he is talking to him- 
self. 

Scaliger. Bless me ! with what persons have I been dis- 
coursing ! with Virgil and Horace ! How could I venture 
to open my lips in their presence ? Good Mercury, I be- 
seech you, let me retire from a company for which I am 
very unfit. Let me go and hide my head in the deepest 
shade of that grove which I see in the valley. After I have 
performed a penance there, I will crawl on my knees to the 
feet of those illustrious shades, aad beg them to see me 
burn my impertinent books of criticism, in the fiery billows 
of Phlegethon, with my own hands. 

Mercury. They will both receive thee into favour. This 
mortification of truly knowing thyself is a sufficient atone- 
ment for thy former presumption. 



SECTION II. 

procida — raimond Mrs, Hemans. 

Procicla. And dost thou still refuse to share the glory 
Of this, our daring enterprise 1 

Raimond. Procida ! 

I too have dreamt of glory, and the word 
Hath to my soul been as a trumpet's voice, 
Making my nature sleepless. But the deeds 
Whereby 'twas won, the high exploits, whose tale 
Bids the heart burn, were of another cast 
Than such as thou requirest. 



8 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER, 



Pro. Every deed 

Hath sanctity, if bearing for its aim 
The freedom of our country ; and the sword 
Alike is honour'd in the patriot's hand, 
Searching, 'midst warrior-hosts, the heart which gave 
Oppression birth ; or flashing through the gloom 
Of the still chamber, o'er its troubled couch, 
At dead of night. 

Rai. (turning away.) There is no path but one 
For noble natures. 

Pro. Would st thou ask the man 

Who to the earth hath dash'd a nation's chains, 
Rent as with Heaven's own lightning, by what means 
The glorious end was won ? — Go, swell th' acclaim I 
Bid the deliverer, hail ! and if his path 
To that most bright and sovereign destiny 
Hath led o'er trampled thousands, be it call'd 
A stern necessity, and not a crime ! 

Rai. My soul yet kindles at the thought 
Of nobler lessons, in my boyhood learn'd 
Ev'n from thy voice. The high remembrances 
Of other days are stirring in the heart 
Where thou didst plant them ; and they speak of men 
Who needed no vain sophistry to gild 
Acts, that would bear heaven's light. And such be mine I 
Procida ! is it yet too late to draw 
The praise and blessing of all valiant hearts 
On our most righteous cause ? 

Pro. What wouldst thou do T 

Rai. I would go forth, and rouse th' indignant land 
To generous combat. Why should Freedom strike 
Mantled with darkness ? — Is there not more strength 
E'en in the waving of her single arm 
Than hosts can wield against her ? — I would rouse 
That spirit, whose fire doth press resistless on 
To its proud sphere, the stormy field of fight ! 

Pro. Ay I and give time and warning to the foe 
To gather all his might I— It is too late. 
There is a work to be this eve begun, 
When rings the Vesper-bell ; and, long before 
To-morrow's sun hath reach'd i' th' noonday heaver* 
His throne of burning glory, every sound 
Of the Provencal tongue within our walls, 
As by one thunder-stroke^ be silenced,. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Rai. What ! such sounds 

As falter on the lip of infancy 
In its imperfect utterance ? 

Pro. Since thou dost feel 

Such horror of our purpose, in thy power 
Are means that might avert it. 

How would those rescued thousands bless thy name, 
Shouldst thou betray us ! 

Rai. Procida ! I can bear — 

Ay, proudly woo — the keenest questioning 
Of thy soul-gifted eye; which almost seems 
To claim a part of Heaven's dread royalty, 
— The power that searches thought ! 

Pro. (after a pause.) Thou hast a brow 

Clear as the day — and yet I doubt thee, Raimond ! 
Whether it be that 1 have learn'd distrust 
From a long look through man's deep-folded heart ; 
Whether my paths have been so seldom cross'd 
By honour and fair mercy, that they seem 
But beautiful deceptions, meeting thus 
My unaccustom'd gaze ; — howe'er it be — 
I doubt thee ! — See thou waver not- — take heed ! 
Time lifts the veil from all things ! 



SECTION III. 

DOGBERRY — -VERGES SEXTON THE WATCH CONRADE— 

borachio ShaJcspeare. 

Dogb. Is our whole dissembly appeared ? 

Verg. O, a stool and cushion for the sexton ! 

Sexton. Which be the malefactors ? 

Dogb. Marry, that am I and my partner. 

Verg. Nay, that's certain ; we have the exhibition to 
examine. 

Sexton. But which are the offenders that are to be ex- 
amined ? let them come before master constable. 

Dogb. Yea, marry, let them come before me. What is 
your name, friend ? 

Bora. Borachio. 

Dogb. Pray write down, Borachio. — Yours, sirrah ? 

Conr. I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade, 
B2 



10 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Dogb. Write down, master gentleman Conrade. Mas- 
ters, it is proved already, that you are little better than 
false knaves ; and it will go near to be thought so shortly. 
How answer you for yourselves ? 

Conr. Marry, sir, we say we are none. 

Dogb. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you ; but I 
will go about with him. Come you hither, sirrah ; a word 
in your ear, sir. I say to you, it is thought you are false 
knaves. 

Bora. Sir, I say to you, we are none. 

Dogb. Well, stand aside. They are both in a tale ; 
Have you writ down, that they are none ? 

Sexton. Master constable, you go not the way to exam- 
ine ; you must call forth the watch that are their accusers. 

Dogb. Yea, marry, that's the eftest way : — Let the watch 
come forth. Masters, I charge you in the prince's name, 
accuse these men. 

1 Watch. This man said, sir, that Don John, the prince's 
brother, was a villain. 

Dogb. Write down, prince John a villain : — Why this 
is flat perjury, to call a prince's brother, villain. 

Bora. Master constable, — 

Dogb. Pray thee, fellow, peace ; I do not like thy look, 
I promise thee. 

Sexton. What heard you him say else 1 

2 Watch. Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats 
of Don John, for accusing the lady Hero wrongfully. 

Dogb. Flat burglary, as ever was committed. 
Verg. Yea, by the mass, that it is. 
Sexton. What else ? 
2 Watch. This is all. 

Sexton. And this is more, masters, than you can deny. 
Master constable, let these men be bound, and brought to 
Leonato'is ; I will go before, and show him their examina- 
tion. [Exit. 
Dogb. Come, let them be opinioned. 
Verg. Let them be in band. 
Conr. Off, coxcomb ! 

Dogb. Zounds! where's the sexton? let him write 
down the prince's officer, coxcomb. Come, bind them : — 
Thou naughty varlet ! 

Conr. Away ! you are an ass, you are an ass. 
Dogb. Dost thou not suspect my place ? Dost thou 
not suspect my years ? — O that he were here to write me 
down, an ass ! — but, masters, remember that I am an ass , 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 11 

though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an 
ass : — No, thou villain, thou art full of villany, as shall be 
proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow ; 
and, which is more, an officer ; and, which is more, a house- 
holder ; and one that knows the law, go to ; and a rich fel- 
low enough, go to ; and a fellow that hath had losses ; and 
one that hath two gowns, and every thing handsome about 
him : — Bring him away. O, that I had been writ down, 
an ass ! 



SECTION IV. 

EXTRACT FROM MR. WEBSTER^ SPEECH, IN REPLY TO 
MR. HAYi\E. 

The gentleman, sir, has spoken at large of former par- 
ties, now no longer in being, by their received appellations ; 
and has undertaken to instruct us not only in the knowl- 
edge of their principles, but of their respective pedigrees 
also. He has ascended to the origin and run out their 
genealogies. With most exemplary modesty, he speaks of 
the party to which he professes to have belonged himself, 
as the true pure, the only honest, patriotic party, derived by 
regular descent, from father to son, from the time of the 
virtuous Romans ! Spreading before us the family tree of 
political parties, he takes especial care to show himself, 
snugly perched on a popular bough ! He is wakeful to the 
expediency of adopting such rules of descent, for political 
parties, as shall bring him in, in exclusion of others, as an 
heir to the inheritance of all public virtue, and all true po- 
litical principles. His doxy is always orthodoxy. Hetero- 
doxy is confined to his opponents. He spoke, sir, of the 
Federalists, and I thought I saw some eyes begin to open 
and stare a little, when he ventured on that ground. 1 ex- 
pected he would draw his sketches rather lightly, when he 
looked on the circle round him ; and especially if he 
should cast his thoughts to the high places out of the Senate. 
Nevertheless, he went back to Rome, ad annum urbis con- 
ditce, and found the fathers of the Federalists, in the pri- 
meval aristocrats of that renowned empire ! He traced 
the flow of federal blood down through successive ages and 
centuries, till he got it into the veins of the American To- 
ries, (of whom, by the way, there were twenty in the Caro- 
linas for one in Massachusetts.) From the Tories, he fol- 



12 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

lowed it to the Federalists : — -and as the Federal Party 
was broken up, and there was no possibility of transmitting 
it further on this side the Atlantic, he seems to have dis- 
covered that it has gone off, collaterally, though against all 
the canons of descent, into the Ultras of France, and 
finally became extinguished, like exploded gas, among the 
adherents of Don Miguel. 

This, sir, is an abstract of the gentleman's history of 
Federalism. I am not about to controvert it. It is not, at 
present worth the pains of refutation, because, sir, if at 
this day any one feels the sin of Federalism lying heavily 
on his conscience, he can easily obtain remission. He may 
even have an indulgence, if he is desirous of repeating the 
same transgression. It is an affair of no difficulty to get 
into this same right line of patriotic descent. A man, 
now-a-days, is at liberty to choose his political paren- 
tage. He may elect his own father. Federalist, or not, 
he may, if he choose, claim to belong to the favoured 
stock, and his claim will be allowed. He may carry 
back his pretensions just as far as the honourable gentle- 
man himself; nay, he may make himself out the honour- 
able gentleman's cousin, and prove satisfactorily, that he is 
descended from the same political great grandfather. All 
this is allowable. We all know a process, sir, by which the 
whole Essex Junto could, in one hour, be all washed white 
from their ancient Federalism, and come out, every one of 
them, an original Democrat, dyed in the wool ! Some of 
them have actually undergone the operation, and they say 
it is quite easy. The only inconvenience it occasions, as 
they tell us, is a slight tendency of the blood to the face, 
a soft suffusion, which, however, is very transient, since 
nothing is said calculated to deepen the red on the cheek, 
but a prudent silence observed, in regard to all the past. 
Indeed, sir, some smiles of approbation have been bestowed, 
and some crumbs of comfort have fallen, not a thousand 
miles from the door of the Hartford Convention itself. And 
if the author of the ordinance of 1787, possessed the other 
requisite qualifications, there is no knowing, notwithstand- 
ing his Federalism, to what heights of favour he might not 
yet attain. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 13 

SECTION V. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO DOGE Lord BxjrOU. 

JBertuccio Faliero. I cannot but agree with you, 
The sentence is too slight for the offence — 
It is not honourable in the Forty 
To affix so slight a penalty to that 
Which was a foul affront to you, and even 
To them, as being your subjects. 

Doge. Oh ! that the Saracen were in St. Mark's ! 
Thus would I do him homage. 

Ber. For the sake 
Of heaven and all its saints, my lord 

Doge, Away ! 

Oh, that the Genoese were in the port ! 
Oh, that the Huns whom I o'erthrew at Zara 
Were ranged around the palace ! 

Ber. 'Tis not well 

In Venice' Duke to say so. 

Doge. Venice' Duke ! 

Who now is Duke in Venice? let me see him, 
That he may do me right. 

Ber. If you forget 

Your office, and its dignity and duty, 
Remember that of man, and curb this passion. 
The duke of Venice 

Doge, (interrupting him.) There is no such thing — 
It is a word- — nay, worse, — a worthless by-word : 
The most despised, wrong'd, outrag'd, helpless wretch, 
Who begs his bread, if 'tis refused by one, 
May win it from another kinder heart ; 
But he, who is denied his right by those 
Whose place it is to do no wrong, is poorer 
Than the rejected beggar — he 's a -slave — 
And that am I, and thou, and all our house, 
Even from this hour ; the meanest artisan 
Will point the finger, and the haughty noble 
May spit upon us : — where is our redress ? 

Ber. The law, my prince 

Doge, (interrupting him.) You see what it has done — 
I ask'd no remedy but from the law — 
I sought no vengeance but redress by law — 
1 call'd no judges but those named by law — 
As sovereign, I appealed unto my subjects^ 



14 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

The very subjects who had made me sovereign, 

And gave me thus a double right to be so. 

The rights of place and choice, of birth and service, 

Honours and years, these scars, these hoary hairs, 

The travel, toil, the perils, the fatigues, 

The blood and sweat of almost eighty years, 

Were weigh'd i' the balance, 'gainst the foulest stain, 

The grossest insult, most contemptuous crime 

Of a rank, rash patrician — and found wanting ! 

And this is to be borne ? 

Ber. I say not that : — 

In case your fresh appeal should be rejected, 
We will find other means to make all even. 

Doge. Appeal again ! art thou my brother's son ? 
A scion of the house of Faliero? 
The nephew of a Doge ? and of that blood 
Which hath already given three dukes to Venice ? 
But thou say'st well— we must be humble now. 

Ber. My princely uncle ! you are too much moved : 
I grant it was a gross offence, and grossly 
Left without fitting punishment ; but still 
This fury doth exceed the provocation, 
Or any provocation. If we are wrong'd, 
We will ask justice ; if it be denied, 
We'll take it; but may do all this in calmness — - 
Deep Vengeance is the daughter of deep Silence. 

Doge. 1 tell thee — must I tell thee — what thy father 
Would have required no words to comprehend ? 
Hast thou no feeling save the external sense 
Of torture from the touch ? hast thou no soul — 
No pride — no passion — no deep sense of honour ? 

Ber. J Tis the first time that honour has been doubted, 
And were the last, from any other sceptic. 

Doge. You know the full offence of this born villain, 
This creeping, coward, rank, acquitted felon, 
Who threw his sting into a poisonous libel, 
And on the honour of — Oh God ! — my wife, 
The nearest, dearest part of all men's honour, 
Left a base slur to pass from mouth to mouth 
Of loose mechanics, with all coarse foul comments, 
And villanous jests, and blasphemies obscene ; 
While sneering nobles, in more polish'd guise, 
Whisper'd the tale, and smiled upon the lie 
Which made me look like them — a courteous wittol, 
Patient — ay, proud, it may be, of dishonour, 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 15 

Ber. And what redress 

Did you expect as his fit punishment ? 

Doge. Death ! Was I not the sovereign of the state — 
Insulted on his very throne, and made 
A mockery to the men who should obey me ? 
Was I not injured as a husband r scorn'd 
As man? reviled, degraded, as a prince? 
Was not offence like his a complication 
Of insult and of treason ? — and he lives ! 
Had he instead of on the Doge's throne 
Stampt the same brand upon a peasant's stool, 
His blood had gilt the threshold ; for the carle 
Had stabh'd him on the instant. 
But, notwithstanding, harm not thou a hair 
Of Steno's head — he shall not wear it long. 

Ber. Your wishes are my law ; and yet I fain 
Would prove to you how near unto my heart 
The honour of our house must ever be. 

Doge. Fear not \ you shall have time and place of proof. 
But be not thou too rash, as I have been. 
I am ashamed of my own anger now ; 
I pray you pardon me. 

Ber. Why, that's my uncle ! 

The leader, and the statesman, and the chief 
Of commonwealths, and sovereign of himself ! 
I wonder'd to perceive you so forget 
All prudence in your fury at these years, 
Although the cause 

Doge. Ay, think upon the cause — 

Forget it not : — When you lie down to rest, 
Let it be black among your dreams ; and when 
The morn returns, so let it stand between 
The sun and you, as an ill omen'd cloud 
Upon a summer-day of festival : 
So will it stand to me ; — but speak not, stir not, — 
Leave all to me ; — we shall have much to do, 
And you shall have a part. — But now retire, 
'Tis fit I were alone. 

SECTION VI. 

KING OF SCOTLAND ATHOL Smolktt. 

King. It is not well — it is not well we meet 
On terms like these : — I should have found in Athol 
A trusty counsellor and steady friend. 



16 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

And better would it suit thy rev'rend age, 
Thy station, quality, and kindred blood, 
To hush ill-judging clamour, and cement 
Divided factions to my throne again, 
Than thus embroil the state. 

AthoL My present aim 

Is to repair, not widen more the breach 
That discord made between us : this, my liege, 
Not harsh reproaches, or severe rebuke, 
Will e'er effectuate ; — No — let us rather, 
On terms which equally become us both, 
Our int'rests reunite. 

King. Ah ! — reunite ! 

By Heav'n, thy proud demeanour more befits 
A sovereign than a subject ! — Reunite ! 
How durst thou sever from thy faith, old lord ! 
And with an helmet load that hoary head 
To wage rebellious war ! 

Atliol The sword of Athol 

Was never drawn but to redress the wrongs 
His country suffer'd. 

King. Dar'st thou to my lace 

Impeach my conduct, baffled as thou art, 
Ungrateful traitor ? Is it thus thy guilt 
My clemency implores ? 

AthoL Not yet so low 

Has fate reduc'd us, that we need to crawl 
Beneath your footstool : in our camp remain 
Ten thousand vig'rous mountaineers, who long 
Their honours to retrieve. 

King. Swift hie thee to them, 

And lead thy fugitive adherents back ! 
Away. — Now by the mighty soul of Bruce ! 
Thou shalt be met. And if thy savage clans 
Abide us in the plain, we soon will tread 
Rebellion in the dust. Why move ye not ! 
Conduct them to their camp. 

Athol. Forgive, my prince, 

If, on my own integrity of heart 
Too far presuming, I have galled the wound 
Too much inflamed already. Not with you, 
But with your measures, ill-advised, I warr'd . 
Your sacred person, family, and throne, 
My purpose still revered. 

King. O wretched plea ! 

To which thy blasted guilt must have recourse ! 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 17 

Had thy design been laudable, thy tongue 
With honest freedom boldly should have spoke 
Thy discontent. Ye live not in a reign 
Where truth, by arbitrary power depressed, 
Dares not maintain her state. I charge thee, say 
What lawless measures has my power pursued? 

Athol. I come not to mitigate your royal wrath 
With sorrow and submission ; not to sum 
The motives which compelled me to the field. 

King. 1 found your miserable state reduced 
To ruin and despair : your cities drench'd 
In mutual slaughter, desolate your plains : 
All order banished, and all arts decayed : 
No industry, save that with hands impure 
Distressed the commonwealth : no laws in force, 
To screen the poor, and check the guilty great; 
While squalid Famine join'd her sister fiend, 
Devouring Pestilence, to curse the scene ! 
1 came — I toiled — reformed — redressed the whole ! 
And lo ! my recompence !— But I relapse. 
What is your suit ? 

AthoL We sue, my liege, for peace. 

King. Say, that my lenity should grant your prayer, 
How, for the future, shall I rest assured 
Of your allegiance ? 

Athol. Stuart shall be left 

The pledge of our behaviour. 

King. And your arms, 

Ere noon to-morrow, shall be yielded up. 

Athol. This too shall be performed. 

King. Then mark me, thane, 

Because the loins from whence I sprung 
On thee, too, life bestowed — enjoy the gift. 
I pardon what is past. In peace consume 
The winter of thy days. But if ye light 
Th' extinguished brand again, and brave my throne 
With new commotions — By th' immortal gods ! 
No future guile, submission, or regard, 
Shall check my indignation ! — I will pour 
My vengeance in full volley ; and the earth 
Shall dread to yield you succour or resource ! 
Of this no more. Thy kinsman shall remain 
With us, an hostage of thy promised faith. 

So shall our mercy with our prudence join, 

United brighten, and securely shine. 
C 



18 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

SECTION VII. 
cicero — catiline — senators Rev. Geo. Croly. 

Cicero. Our long debate must close. Take one proof 
more 
Of this rebellion. Lucius Catiline 
Has been commanded to attend the Senate. 
He dares not come. 1 now demand your votes ; — 
Is he condemned to exile? 

\Catiline comes in hastily. All the Senators go 
over to the other side. Cicero turns to Catiline. 
Here 1 repeat the charge, to gods and men, 
Of treasons manifold ; — that, but this day, 
He has received despatches from the rebels — 
That he has leagued with deputies from Gaul 
To seize the province ; nay, has levied troops, 
And raised his rebel standard ; — that, but now 
A meeting of conspirators was held 
Under his roof, with mystic rites, and oaths, 
Pledged round the body of a murder'd slave. 
To these he has no answer. 

Catiline. Conscript Fathers ! 

I do not rise to waste the night in words: 
Let that plebeian talk ; ? tis not my trade ; 
But here I stand for right. Let him show proofs, — 
For Roman right ; though none, it seems, dare stand 
To take their share with me. Ay, cluster there, 
Cling to your master ; judges, Romans, — slaves ! 
His charge is false ; — I dare him to his proofs, 
You have my answer now ! I must be gone. 

Cic. These, as I told you, were this evening seized 
Within his house. You knew them, Catiline ? 

Cat. Know them ! What crimination's there ? What 
tongue 
Lives in that helm to charge me ? Cicero — 
Go search my house, you may find twenty such ; 
All fairly struck from brows of barbarous kings, 
When you and yours were plotting here in Rome. 
I say, go search my house. And is this all ? 
I scorn to tell you by what chance they came. 
Where have 1 levied troops — tampered with slaves- 
Bribed fool or villain, to embark his neck 
In this rebellion ? Let my actions speak. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 19 

Cic. This is his answer! Must I bring more proofs? 
Fathers, yon know there lives not one of us, 
But lives in peril of his midnight sword. 
Lists of proscription have been handed round, 
In which your general properties are made 
Your murderers' hire. 

Bring in the prisoner. 

[Enter Cethegus. 
Fathers ! this stain to his high name and blood, 
Came to my house to murder me ; and came 
Suborned by him. 

Cat. (scornfully.) Cethegus ! 
Did you say this ? 

Ceth. Not 1. I went to kill 

A prating, proud plebeian, whom those fools 
Palm'd on the Consulship. 

Cic. And sent by whom? 

Ceth. By none. By nothing, but my zeal to purge 
The senate of yourself, most learned Cicero ! 

Cic. Fathers of Rome ! If man can be convinced 
By proof, as clear as day-light, there it stands ! 

[Pointing to the prisoner. 
This man has been arrested at the gates, 
Bearing despatches to raise war in Gaul. 
Look on these letters ! Here's a deep laid plot 
To wreck the provinces : a solemn league 
Made with all form and circumstance. The time 
Is desperate, — all the slaves are up ; — Rome shakes ! 
The heavens alone can tell how near our graves 
We stand ev'n here! — The name of Catiline 
Is foremost in the league. He was their king. 
Tried and convicted traitor, go from Rome ! 

Cat. Come, consecrated lictors ! from your thrones ; 

[ To the Senate. 
Fling down your sceptres : — take the rod and axe, 
And make the murder as you make the law. 

Cic. Lictors, drive the traitor from the temple. 

Cat. ' Traitor !' I go — but I return. This — trial ! 
Here I devote your Senate ! I've had wrongs, 
To stir a fever in the blood of age, 
Or make the infant's sinew strong as steel, 
This day's the birth of sorrows ! — /This hour's work 
Will breed proscriptions. Look to your hearths, my lords ! 
For there henceforth shall sit, for household gods, 
Shapes hot from Tartarus ;— all shames and crimes ; 



20 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER, 

Wan treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn ; 
Suspicion, poisoning the brother's cup ; 
Naked rebellion, with the torch and axe, 
Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones ; 
Till anarchy comes down on you like night, 
And massacre seals Rome's eternal grave ! 

Senators. Go, enemy and parricide, from Rome [ 
Cat. (indignantly.) It shall be so ! — (Going. He sud- 
denly returns.) — When Catiline comes again, 
Your grandeur shall be base, and clowns shall sit 
In scorn upon those chairs. 
Then Cicero and his tools shall pay me blood — 
Vengeance for every drop of my boy's veins ; — 
And such of you as cannot find the grace 
To die with swords in your right hands, shall feel 
The life, life worse than death, of trampled slaves I 
Senators. Go, enemy and parricide, from Rome ! 
Cic. Expel him, lictors ! Clear the senate-house t 
Cat. I go, — but not to leap the gulf alone ! 
I go ; — but when 1 come — 'twill be the burst 
Of ocean in the earthquake rolling back 
In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well ! — 
You build my funeral pile, but your best blood 
Shall quench its name. Back, slaves ! (to the Lictors.) I 
will return ! 



SECTION VIII. 

SPEECH OF CATILINE.. ...Ibid. 

Are there not times, Patricians ! when great states 

Rush to their ruin ? Rome is no more like Rome 

Than a foul dungeon's like the glorious sky. 

What is she now ? Degenerate, gross, denied ; 

The tainted haunt, the gorged receptacle 

Of every slave and vagabond of earth : 

A mighty grave, that luxury has dug, 

To rid the other realms of pestilence ; 

And, of the mountain of corruption there, 

Which once was human beings, procreate 

A buzzing, fluttering swarm ; or venom tooth'd, 

A viper brood : insects and reptiles only ! 

Consul ! Look on me — on this brow — these hands ; 

Look on this bosom, black with early wounds ; 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 21 

Have I not served the state from boyhood up, 
Scattered my blood for her, laboured for, loved her 1 
/had no chance ; wherefore should / be Consul? 
Patricians! they have pushed me to the gulf; 
I have worn down my heart, wasted my means, 
Humbled my birth, barter'd my ancient name, 
For the rank favour of the senseless mass 
That frets and festers in your commonwealth : 
Ay, stalk'd about with bare head and stretched hand, 
Smiling on this slave, and embracing that. 
Coining my conscience into beggar words, 
Doing the candidates 5 whole drudgery. 
What is't to me that all have stooped in turn ? 
Does fellowship in chains make bondage proud ? 
Does the plague lose its venom, if it taint 
My brother with myself? Is't victory, 
If I but find, stretched by my bleeding side, 
All who came with me in the golden morn, 
And shouted as my banner met the sun ? 
I cannot think oft. There's no faith in earth ; 
The very men with whom I walked through life 
Nay, till within this hour, in all the bonds 
Of courtesy and high companionship, 
They all deserted me; Metellus, Scipio, 
iEmilius, Cato, even my kinsman Caesar, — 
All the chief names and senators of Rome, 
This day, as if the heavens had stamped me black, 
Turned on their heel, just at the point of fate, 
Left me a mockery in the rabble's midst, 
And followed their plebeian consul, Cicero ! 
No ! I have run my course. Another year ! 
Why taunt me, sir ? No — if their curule chair, 
Sceptre, and robe, and all their mummery, 
Their whole embodied consulate were flung, 
Here at my feet, — and all assembled Rome 
Knelt to me, but to stretch my finger out, 
And pluck them from the dust, — I'd scorn to do it ; 
This was the day to which I looked through life ; 
And it has failed me, — vanished from my grasp, 
Like air. 

I must not throw the honourable stake, 
That won, is worth the world, — is glory, life; 
But, like a beaten slave, must stand aloof, 
While others sweep the board ! 
'Tis fixed ! — Past talking now ! — By Tartarus t 
C 2 



22 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



From this curst day I seek and sue no more : 

If there be sueing, it shall be by those 

Who have awoke the fever in my veins. 

No matter ! — Nobles, when we deign to kneel, 

We should be trampled on. Sinews and swords, — 

They're the true canvassers : — The time may come ! — 

Never for me ! My name's extinguished — dead — 

Roman no more, — the rabble of the streets 

Have seen me humbled, — slaves may gibe at me. 

Crime may be cleared, and sorrow's eyes be dried, 

The lowliest poverty be gilded yet, 

The neck of airless, pale imprisonment 

Be lightened of its chains ! For all the ills 

That chance or nature lays upon our heads, 

In chance or nature there is found a cure : 

But self-abasement is beyond all cure ! 

The brand is there, burned in the living flesh, 

That bears its mark to the grave : — That dagger's plunged 

Into the central pulses of the heart ; 

The act is the mind's suicide ; for which 

There is no after-health — no hope — no pardon ! 

My day is done. 



SECTION IX. 

SIR FRANCIS WRONGHEAD MANLY C. Gibber. 

Manly. Sir Francis, your servant. 

Sir Francis. Cousin Manly. 

Man. I am come to see how the family goes on here. 

Sir F. Troth ! all as busy as bees ; I have been on the 
wing ever since eight o'clock this morning. 

Man. By your early hour, then, I suppose you have 
been making your court to some of the great men. 

Sir F. Why, faith ! you have hit it, Sir 1 was advised 

to lose no time : so I e'en went straight forward to one great 
man I had never seen in all my life before. 

Man. Right, that was doing business ; but who had you 
got to introduce you ? 

Sir F. Why, nobody — 1 remember I had heard a wise 
man gay — My son, be bold — So troth ! I introduced myself. 

Man. As how, pray 

Sir F. Why, thus — Look ye — Please your lordship, 
says I, 1 am Sir Francis Wronghead, of Bumper-hall, and 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 23 

member of parliament for the borough of Guzzledown — Sir, 
your humble servant, says my lord ; thof I have not the 
honour to know your person, I have heard you are a very 
honest gentleman, and I am glad your borough has made 
choice of so worthy a representative ; and so, says he, Sir 
Francis, have you any service to command me ? Naw, 
cousin, these last words, you may be sure gave me no small 
encouragement. And thof I know, Sir, you have no ex- 
traordinary opinion of my parts, yet I believe, you wont say 
I missed it naw ! 

Man. Well, I hope I shall have no cause. 

Sir F. So, when T found him so courteous — My lord, 
says I, I did not think to ha' troubled your lordship with 
business upon my first visit : but, since your lordship is 
pleased not to stand upon ceremony, — why truly, says I, 1 
think naw is as good as another time. 

Man. Right ! there you pushed him home. 

Sir F. Ay, ay, I had a mind to let him see that I was 
none of your mealy-mouthed ones. 

Man. Very good. 

Sir F. So, in short, my lord, says I, I have a good es- 
tate — but — a — it's a little awt at elbows : and as I desire 
to serve my king as well as my country, I shall be very 
willing to accept of a place at court. 

Man. So this was making short work on't. 

Sir F. I'cod ! 1 shot him flying, cousin : some of your 
hawf-witted ones, naw, would ha' hummed and hawed, and 
dangled a month or two after him, before they durst open 
their mouths about a place, and, mayhap, not ha' got it at 
last neither. 

Man. Oh, I'm glad you're so sure on't — 

Sir F. You shall hear, cousin Sir Francis, says my 

lord, pray what sort of a place may you ha' turned your 
thoughts upon ? My lord, says I, beggars must not be 
choosers ; but ony place, says I, about a thousand a-year, 
will be well enough to be doing with, till something better 
falls in — for I thowght it would not look well to stond hag- 
gling with him at first. 

Man. No, no, your business was to get footing any way. 

Sir F. Right ! ay, there's it ! ay, cousin, I see you 
know the world. 

Man. Yes, yes, one sees more of it every day — Well 
but what said my lord to all this 1 

Sir F. Sir Francis, says he, I shall be glad to serve you 
any way that lies in my power ; so he gave me a squeeze 



24 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

by the hand, as much as to say, give yourself no trouble 

I'll do your business ; with that he turned himself abawt 
to somebody with a coloured ribbon across here, that looked 
in my thowghts, as if he came for a place too. 

Man. Ha ! so, upon these hopes, you are to make your 
fortune ! 

Sir F. Why, do you think there is any doubt of it, Sir ? 

Man. Oh, no, I have not the least doubt about it — for 
just as you have done, 1 made my fortune ten years ago. 

Sir F Why, I never knew you had a place, cousin. 

Man. Nor I neither, upon my faith, cousin. But you, 
perhaps, may have better fortune : for I suppose my lord 
has heard of what importance you were in the debate to- 
day — You have been since down at the house, I presume. 

Sir F. Oh, yes ! I would not neglect the house for ever 
so much. 

Man. Well, and pray what have they done there ? 

Sir F. Why, troth ! I can't well tell you what they have 
done ; but 1 can tell you what I did, and I think pretty 
well in the main, only I happened to make a little mistake 
at last, indeed. 

Man. How was that 1 

Sir F. Why, they were all got there into a sort of puz- 
zling debate about the good of the nation — and I were always 

for that, you know but, in short, the arguments were so 

long-winded o' both sides, that waunds ! I did not well un- 
derstand ; um : hawsomever I was convinced, and so resolv- 
ed to vote right, according to my conscience — so when they 
came to put the question, as they call it, — I don't know 
haw 'twas — but I doubt I cried ay ! when I should ha' cried 
no ! 

Man. How came that about ? 

Sir F. Why, by a mistake, as i tell you — for there 
was a good-humoured sort of a gentleman, one Mr. Toth- 
erside, I think they call him, that sat next me, as soon 
as I had cried ay ! gives me a hearty shake by the hand. 
Sir, says he, you are a man of honour, and a true Eng- 
lishman ; and I should be proud to be better acquainted 
with you — and so, with that he takes me by the sleeve, 
along with the crowd into the lobby — so I knew nowght — 
but, odds-flesh ; I was got o' the wrong side the post— for I 
were told, afterwards, I should have staid where I was. 

Man. And so, if you had not quite made your fortune 
before, you have clinched it now !— — Ah, thou head of the 
Wrongheads ! [Aside. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 25 

Sir F. Odso ! here's my lady come home at last — T 
hope, cousin, you will be so kind as to take a family supper 
with us ? 

Man. Another time, Sir Francis; but to-night I am 
engaged. 



SECTION X. 

iEMILIUS TITUS VARUS Jollll Home. 

Titus. Turn not away, [ To his father. 

Nor hold thy Titus of one look unworthy. 

Mmil. Art thou my Titus? Thou that fear'st to die, 
And comes a servile suppliant for life, 
With coward prayers to seduce the Consul ? 
No ! thou art not my son. I had a son ! 
Whose only fault was valour to excess, 
Whose fatal courage was the source of ills 
Which he was bound in honour to sustain. 
Thou art not he ! thou scandal to thy country ! 
Thou tool of Maximin ! 

Titus. Wrong not thy son. 

Fast roll the numbered moments of my life, 
And I must hasten to redeem my fame. 

JEtmil. I fear, but know not what thy words portend. 

Titus. I have deceived the tyrant, and am come 
No messenger nor counsellor of shame. 
The cause of honour, of my father's honour, 
The cause of Rome against myself I plead, 
And in my voice the noble Paulas speaks. 
Let no man pity us ; aloft we stand 
On a high theatre, objects, I think, 
Of admiration and of envy rather. 
The tyrant and his menaced deaths we scorn, 
The cheerful victims of our sacred country. 

JBinil. Hear this ! O earth and heaven ! my son, my 
pride ! 
Come to thy father's arms ; now, now I know 
My blood again. O bitter, pleasing hour ! 
For I must lose thee — lose thee, O my hero ! 
Now when I love thee best, and most admire. 

Titus. This to prevent I came ; the force I feared 
Of strong affection, and a mother's tears. 
We saw the busy heralds come and go, 



26 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

And trembled lest the Consul might be won ; 

For ebbing resolution ne'er returns, 

But still falls farther from its former shore. 

To aid my father in this trying hour 

Did I assume a dastard's vile disguise. 

jEmil. And did I meet you with reproach and scorn ! 
With scorn encounter my devoted son, 
Who came to strengthen and support his sire ? 
Forgive me, last of the iEmilian line ! 
Pure and unstained the current of our blood 
Ends as it long has flowed. 

Var. Thou noble youth, 

Whose life more and more precious still I deem, 
I am the friend of Rome ; of yonder host 
No slender part under my ensigns move. 
With them 1 watch the tyrant's overthrow, 
And guard my country with a stronger power, 
Than Aquileia, and her feeble walls. 
Great is thy glory ; thou hast reached the top 
Of magnanimity, in bloom of youth 
The Regulus revived of ancient Rome : 
Inflexible to terror, yield to prudence, 
No tongue shall tax thine or thy father's fame. 

Titus. Renowned Varus ! often have I heard 
Of thee, and of thy virtues ; oft rejoiced, 
That I could claim affinity with them ; 
But not the sanction of thy honour'd voice, 
Not all the credence due to worth like thine, 
Can move my steadfast mind. There is but one, 
One only path which mortals safely tread, 
The sacred path of rectitude and truth. 
I follow, though it leads me to the tomb. 
Forgive me, noble Roman ! o'er thy head, 
Perhaps, this instant, dire discovery hangs, 
And thou and Rome are lost, and basely lost. 
No, let the Consul, as he ought, defy 
The tyrant's threat'ning, and rely on Heaven. 
For me, and Paulus too, our hearts are fixed, 
Deliberation of our state is vain : 
For if the Consul should the city yield, 
Inevitable death abides his son. 

JEmil. Eternal gods! thy mystic words explain. 

Titus. A solemn oath determined we have sworn, 
Ne'er to survive the ignominious ransom. 
Restored to liberty, to death we fly, 
And perish mutual by each other's sword. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 27 

jEmiL Immortal gods ! who gave me sons like these, 
Forsake them not, but guard your work divine. 

Titus. Think not, O best of fathers, best of men, 
That with unfilial arrogance I speak. 
My heart is full this instant of affection, 
Hard. to suppress. Dear to my soul are those 
I leave behind, bitter to me their sorrows. 
But destiny supreme hath marked my way ; 
And I accept what honour cannot shun. 
By trivial accident, by various ills 
Fatal to man, thou might'st have lost thy sons, 
And they in dark oblivion would have slept : 
But now I see the goal that Jove assigns, 
And glory terminates our short career. 
Be this thy comfort ; I avow it mine. 
Admir'd and mourned by Rome, for Rome we die. 
Of fate secure, immortal is our fame, 
And spotless laurels deck thy children's tomb. 

JEmil. O ! my son, thou art the judge 
And arbiter of fate. Time, rapid fly, 
And bring a joyful victory to Rome ! 
Let me but see the scale of combat turned, 
And die in glad assurance of her safety. 

Var. The hero's fire invades my secret soul : 
Like his my bosom burns. You shall not die, 
Unaided and alone. Perhaps the gods ! — 
I know not that ; but I will raise a pile 
Of glorious ruin. Shine, ye stars of Rome ! 
First in the column stand my British bands. 
Prepare your squadrons, and protract the time 
Of his return. 



SECTION XI. 

CICERO LORD CHESTERFIELD V. KnOX. 

Cicero. Mistake me not. I know how to value the 
sweet courtesies of life. Affability, attention, decorum of 
behaviour, if they have not been ranked by philosophers 
among the virtues, are certainly related to them, and have 
a powerful influence in promoting social happiness. I have 
recommended them, as well as yourself. But I contend, 
and no sophistry shall prevail upon me to give up this point, 
that to be truly amiable, they must proceed from goodness 



28 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

of heart. Assumed by the artful to serve the purposes of 
private interest, they degenerate to contemptible grimace 
and detestable hypocrisy. 

Chest. Excuse me, my dear Cicero ; I cannot enter far- 
mer into the controversy at present. I have a hundred en- 
gagements at least ; and see yonder my little elegant French 
Comptesse. 1 promised her and myself the pleasure of a 
promenade. Pleasant walking enough in these elysian 
groves. So much good company too, that if it were not 
that the canaille are apt to be troublesome, I should not 
much regret the distance from the Thuilleries. But adieu, 
mon cher ami, for I see Madame * * * * is joining the 
party. Adieu, adieu ! 

Cic. Contemptible fop ! 

Chest. Ah ! what do I hear ? Recollect that I a man 
of honour, unused to the pity or the insults of an upstart, ' 
a novus homo. But perhaps your exclamation was not 
meant of me — if so, why — 

Cic. I am as little inclined to insult as to flatter you. 
Your levity excited my indignation ; but my compassion 
for the degeneracy of human nature, exhibited in your in- 
stance, absorbs my contempt. 

Chest. I could be a little angry, but as bienseance for- 
bids it, I will be a philosopher for once. A-propos, pray 
how do you reconcile your — what shall 1 call it — your un- 
smooth address to those rules of decorum, that gentleness 
of manners, of which you say you know and teach the pro- 
priety as well as myself? 

Cic. To confess the truth, I would not advance the ex- 
ternal embellishment of manners to extreme refinement. 
Ornamental education, or an attention to the graces, has a 
connexion with effeminacy. In acquiring the gentleman, I 
would not lose the spirit of a man. There is a graceful- 
ness in a manly character, a beauty in an open and ingen- 
uous disposition, which all the professed teachers of the 
arts of pleasing know not how to communicate. 

Chest. You and I lived in a state of manners, as differ- 
ent as the periods at which we lived were distant. You 
Romans — pardon me, my dear, you Romans — had a little 
of the brute in you. Come, come, I must overlook it. 
You were obliged to court plebeians for their suffrages ; 
and if similis simili gaudet, it must be owned, that the 
greatest of you were secure of their favour. Why, Beau 
Nash would have handed your Catos and Brutuses out of 
the ball-room, if they had shown their unmannerly heads in 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER, 29 

it ; and my Lord Modish^ animated with the conscious merit 
of the largest or smallest buckles in the room, according 
to the temporary ton, would have laughed Pompey the 
Great out of countenance. Oh, Cicero, had you lived in a 
modern European court, you would have caught a degree 
of thatundescribable grace, which is not only the ornament, 
but may be the substitute of all those laboured attainments 
which fools call solid merit. But it was not your good for- 
tune, and I make allowances. 

Cic. The vivacity you have acquired in studying the writ- 
ings and the manners of the degenerate Gauls, has led you to 
set too high a value on qualifications which dazzle the lively 
perceptions with a momentary blaze, and to depreciate that 
kind of worth which can neither be obtained nor under- 
stood without serious attention and sometimes painful efforts. 

Chest. That the great Cicero should know so little of 
the world, really surprises me. A little libertinism, my 
dear, that's all ; how can one be a gentleman without a lit- 
tle libertinism ? 

Cic. I ever thought that to be a gentleman, it was re- 
quisite to be a moral man. And surely you, who might 
have enjoyed the benefits of a light to direct you, which I 
wanted, were blameable in omitting religion and virtue in 
your system. 

Chest. What ! superstitious too ! — You have not then 
conversed with your superior, the philosopher of Ferney. 
I thank Heaven I was born in the same age with that great 
luminary. Prejudice had else, perhaps, chained me in the 
thraldom of my great grandmother. These are enlightened 
days ; and I find I have contributed something to the gen- 
eral illumination, by my posthumous letters. 

Cic. Boast not of them. Remember you were a father. 

Chest. And did I not endeavour most effectually to serve 
my son, by pointing out the qualifications necessary to a 
foreign ambassador, for which department I always de- 
signed him ? Few fathers have taken more pains to ac- 
complish a son than myself. There was nothing I did not 
condescend to point out to him. 

Cic. True : your condescension was great indeed. You 
were the pander of your son. You not only taught him 
the mean arts of dissimulation, the petty tricks which de- 
grade nobility ; but you corrupted his principles, fomented 
his passions, and even pointed out objects for their gratifi- 
cation. You might have left the task of teaching him fash- 
ionable vice to a vicious world. Example, and the corrupt 
D 



30 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



affections of human nature, will ever be capable of accom- 
plishing this unnatural purpose. But a parent, the guardian 
appointed by nature for an uninstructed offspring introduced 
into a dangerous world, who himself takes upon him the 
office of seduction, is a monster indeed. 

Chest. Spare me, Cicero. I have never been accus- 
tomed to the rough conversation of an old Roman. I feel 
myself little in his company. I seem to shrink in his noble 
presence. I never felt my insignificance so forcibly as 
now. French courtiers and French philosophers, of the 
age of Louis the Fourteenth, have been my models; and 
amid the dissipation of pleasure, and the hurry of affected 
vivacity, I never considered the gracefulness of virtue, and 
the beauty of an open, sincere, and manly character. 



SECTION XII. 

EXTRACT FROM MR. HAYNE's SPEECH. 1830. 

If there be one state in the Union, Mr. President, (and 
1 say it not in a boastful spirit,) that may challenge com- 
parisons with any other for an uniform, zealous, ardent and 
uncalculating devotion to the Union, that state is South 
Carolina. Sir, from the very commencement of the rev- 
olution up to this hour, there is no sacrifice, however great, 
she has not cheerfully made ; no service she has ever hesi- 
tated to perform. She has adhered to you in your prosper- 
ity ; but in your adversity she has clung to you, with more 
than filial affection. No matter what was the condition of 
her domestic affairs, though deprived of her resources, di- 
vided by parties, or surrounded with difficulties, the call of 
the country has been to her as the voice of God. Domes- 
tic discord ceased at the sound — every man became at once 
reconciled to his brethren, and the sons of Carolina were 
all seen crowding together to the temple, bringing their gifts 
to the altar of their common country. 

What, sir, was the conduct of the south during the rev- 
olution? Sir, I honour New-England for her conduct in 
that glorious struggle. But great as is the praise which be- 
longs to her, I think, at least equal honour is due the south. 
They espoused the quarrel of their brethren, with a gener- 
ous zeal, which did not suffer them to stop to calculate their 
interest in the dispute. Favourites of the mother country, 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 31 

possessed of neither ships nor seamen to create a commer- 
cial rivalship, they might have found in their situation a 
guarantee, that their trade would be forever fostered and 
protected by Great Britain. But trampling on all consid- 
erations either of interest or of safety, they rushed into the 
conflict, land, fighting for principle, periled all, in the sacred 
cause of freedom. Never was there exhibited in the history 
of the world higher examples of noble daring, dreadful 
suffering and heroic endurance, than by the whigs of Car- 
olina, during the revolution. The whole state, from the 
mountains to the sea, was overrun by an overwhelming 
force of the enemy. The fruits of industry perished on 
the spot where they were produced, or were consumed by 
the foe. The " plains of Carolina" drank up the most 
precious blood of her citizens. Black and smoking ruins 
marked the places which had been the habitations of her 
children ! Driven from their homes, into the gloomy and 
almost impenetrable swamps, even there the spirit of liberty 
survived ; and South Carolina, sustained by the example of 
her Sumpters and her Marions, proved by her conduct that 
though her soil might be overrun, the spirit of her people 
was invincible. 



SECTION XIII. 

MONTALBA — -GUIDO PROCIDA RAIMOND Mrs. Hemam. 

Pro Welcome, my brave associates ! — We can share 
The wolPs wild freedom here. Th' oppressor's haunt 
Is not 'midst rocks and caves. 

Where is he 
Who from his battles had returned to breathe 
Once more, without a corslet, and to meet 
The voices, and the footsteps, and the smiles, 
Blent with his dreams of home? Of that dark tale 
The rest is known to vengeance ! Art thou here, 
With thy deep wrongs and resolute despair, 
Childless Montalba? 

Mont, (advancing.) He is at thy side. 
Call on that desolate father, in the hour 
When his revenge is nigh. 

Pro. Thou, too, come forth, 

From thine own halls an exile ! Dost thou make 
The mountain-fastnesses thy dwelling still, 



32 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



While hostile banners, o'er thy rampart walls, 
Wave their proud blazonry ? 

Gui. Even so. I stood 

Last night before my own ancestral towers, 
An unknown outcast, while the tempest beat 
On my bare head — what reck'd it ? — There was joy 
Within, and revelry ; the festive lamps 
Were streaming from each turret, and gay songs, 
I' th' stranger's tongue, made mirth. They little deem'd 
Who heard their melodies I — but there are thoughts 
Best nurtured in the wild ; there are dread vows 
Known to the mountain-echoes. Procida ! 
Call on the outcast when revenge is nigh. 

Pro. I knew a young Sicilian, one whose heart 
Should be all fire. On that most guilty day, 
When, with our martyr'd Conradin, the flower 
Of the land's knighthood perished ; he, of whom 
I speak, a weeping boy, whose innocent tears 
Melted a thousand hearts that dared not aid, 
Stood by the scaffold, with extended arms, 
Calling upon his father, whose last look 
Turned full on him its parting agony. 
That father's blood gushed o'er him ! — and the boy 
Then dried his tears, and, with a kindling eye, 
And a proud flush on his young cheek, look'd up 
To the bright heaven. — Doth he remember still 
That bitter hour? 

Gui. He bears a sheathless sword ! 

— Call on the orphan when revenge is nigh. 

Pro. Our band shows gallantly — but there are men 
Who should be with us now, had they not dared 
In some wild moment of festivity 
To give their full hearts way, and breathe a wish 
For freedom ! — and some traitor- — it might be 
A breeze perchance— bore the forbidden sound 
To Eribert r — so they must die — unless 
Fate (who at times is wayward) should select 
Some other victim first ! — But have they not 
Brothers or sons amongst us ? 

Gui. Look on me ! 

I have a brother, a young, high*soul'd boy, 
And beautiful as a sculptor's dream, with brow 
That wears, amidst its dark, rich curls, the stamp 
Of inborn nobleness, In truth, he is 
A glorious creature ! — But his doom is sealed 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 33 

With theirs of whom you spoke ; and I have knelt — 
Ay, scorn me not ! 'twas for his life — I knelt 
E'en at the viceroy's feet, and he put on 
That heartless laugh of cold malignity 
We know so well, and spurned me. But the stain 
Of shame like this, takes blood to wash it off, 
And thus it shall be cancell'd ! — Call on me, 
When the stern moment of revenge is nigh. 

Pro. I call upon thee now ! The land's high soul 
Is roused, and moving onward, like a breeze, 
Or a swift sunbeam, kindling nature's hues 
To deeper life before it. In his chains, 
The peasant dreams of freedom ! — ay, 'tis thus 
Oppression fans th' imperishable flame 
With most unconscious hands. 

Now, before 
The majesty of yon pure Heaven, whose eye 
Is on our hearts, whose righteous arm befriends 
The arm that strikes for freedom ; speak ! decree 
The fate of our oppressors. 

Mont. Let them fall 

When dreaming least of peril ! — When the heart, 
Basking in sunny pleasure, doth forget 
That hate may smile, but sleeps not. Hide the sword 
With a thick veil of myrtle, and in halls 
Of banqueting, where the full wine-cup shines 
Red in the festal torch-light ; meet we there, 
And bid them welcome to the feast of death. 

Rai. Must innocence and guilt 
Perish alike ? 

Mont. Who talks of innocence ? 

When hath their hand been stayed for innocence ? 
Let them all perish ! — Heaven will choose its own. 
Why should their children live? The earthquake whelms 
Its undistinguished thousands, making graves 
Of peopled cities in its path — and this 
Is Heaven's dread justice — ay, and it is well ! 
Why then should we be tender, when the skies 
Deal thus with man? What, if the infant bleed? 
Is there not power to hush the mother's pangs ? 
What, if the youthful bride perchance should fall 
In her triumphant beauty ? — Should we pause ? 
As if death were not mercy to the pangs 
Which make our lives the records of our foes ? 
D2 



34 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Let them all perish ! — And if one be found 

Amidst our band, to stay th' avenging steel 

For pity or remorse, or boyish love, 

Then be his doom as theirs ! [A pause. 

Why gaze ye thus? 
Brethren, what means your silence ? 

Gui. Be it so ! 

If one amongst us stay th' avenging steel 
For love or pity, be his doom as theirs ! 
Pledge we our faith to this ! 

Rai. Our faith to this ! 

No ! I but dreamt I heard it ! — Can it be ? 
My countrymen, my father ! — Is it thus 
That freedom should be won ? — Awake ! Awake 
To loftier thoughts ! — Lift up, exultingly, 
On the crown'd heights, and to the sweeping winds, 
Your glorious banner ! — Let your trumpet's blast 
Make the tombs thrill with echoes ! Call aloud, 
Proclaim from all your hills, the land shall bear 
The stranger's yoke no longer ! — What is he 
Who carries on his practised lip a smile, 
Beneath his vest a dagger, which but waits 
Till the heart bounds with joy, to still its beatings ? 
That which our nature's instinct doth recoil from, 
And our blood curdle at— Ay, yours and mine — 
A murderer ! — Heard ye? — Shall that name with ours 
Go down to after days ? — Oh, friends ! a cause 
Like that for which we rise, hath made bright names 
Of the elder time as rallying-words to men, 
Sounds full of might and immortality ! 
And shall not ours be such ? 

Mont. Fond dreamer, peace ! 

Fame ! What is fame ? — Will our unconscious dust 
Start into thrilling rapture from the grave, 
At the vain breath of praise ? — I tell thee, youth, 
Our souls are parch'd with agonizing thirst, 
Which must be quench'd though death were in the draught : 
We must have vengeance, for our foes have left 
No other joy un blighted. 

Pro. Oh ! my son, 

The time is past for such high dreams as thine. 
Thou know'st not whom we deal with. Knightly faith, 
And chivalrous honour, are but things whereon 
They cast disdainful pity. We must meet 
Falsehood with wiles, and insult with revenge. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 35 

Rai. Procida, know, 

I shrink from crime alone. Oh ! if my voice 
Might yet have power amongst you, I would say, 
Associates, leaders, be avenged ! but yet 
As knights, as warriors ! 

Mont. Peace ! have we not borne 

Th' indelible taint of contumely and chains ? 
We are not knights and warriors. Our bright crests 
Have been defiled and trampled to the earth. 
Boy ! we are slaves — and our revenge shall be 
Deep as a slave's disgrace. 

Rai. Why, then farewell ; 

I leave you to your counsels. He that still 
Would hold his lofty nature undebased, 
And his name pure, were but a loiterer here. 



SECTION XIV. 

SIR JOSEPH BANKS PETER John Wolcott. 

Sir Joseph. Your meaning, friend, I easily divine ! 

Peter. Yes, quit for life the chair — resign, resign. 

Sir J. No, with contempt the grinning world I see, 
And always laugh at those who laugh at me. 

Pet. To steal a point then, may I never thrive 
But you must be the merriest man alive. 

Sir J. Good ! — but, my friend, 'twould be a black No- 
vember, 
To lose the chair, and sneak a vulgar member ; 
Sit on a bench mumchance without my hat, 
Sunk from a lion to tame torn cat : 
Just like a schoolboy trembling o'er his book, 
Afraid to move, or speak, or think, or look, 
When Mr. President, with mastiff air, 
Vouchsafes to grumble ' Silence' from the chair. 

Pet. All this is mortifying co be sure, 
And more than flesh and blood can well endure ! 
Then to your turnip fields in peace retire : 
Return, like Cincinnatus, country 'squire. 
Thus, though proud London dares refuse you fame, 
The towns of Lincolnshire shall raise your name, 
Knock down the bear, and bull, and calf, and king, 
And bid Sir Joseph on their signposts swing. 



36 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Sir J. No ! since I've fairly mounted fortune's mast, 
Till fate shall chop my hands off, I'll hold fast. 

Pet. And yet, Sir Joseph, fame reports you stole 
To fortune's topmast through the lubberhole. 
Think of the men whom science so reveres ! 

Sir J. Blockheads ! for whom I do not care a button, 
Fools, who to mathematics would confine us, 
And bother all our ears with plus and minus. 

Pet. Sir Joseph, do not fancy, that by fate 
Great wisdom goes with titles and estate ! 
I grant that pride and insolence appear 
Where purblind fortune thousands gives a year. 
Too many of fortune's insects have I seen, 
Proud of some little name, with scornful mien, 
High o'er the head of modest genius rise, 
Pert, foppish, whiffling, flutt'ring butterflies ! 

Sir J. Since truth must out, then know, my biting friend, 
Philosophers my soul with horror rend ; 
Whene'er their mouths are opened, I am mum — 
Plague take 'em, should a president be dumb ? 
1 loath the arts — the universe may know it — 
I hate a painter, and I hate a poet. 

Pet. In troth, Sir Joseph, I have often seen ye 
Look in debate a little like a ninny, 
Struggling to grasp the sense with mouth, hands, eyes, 
- And with the philosophic speaker rise ; 
Just like a spider, brushed by Susan's broom, 
That tries to claw its thread, and mount the room, 
Poor sprawling reptile, but with humbled air 
Condemn'd to sneak away behind a chair. 

Sir J. Still to the point — a rout let fellows make ; 
My power is too well fix'd for such a shake ; 
My sure artillery hath o'ercome a host. 

Pet. I own the great past powers of tea and toast! 
Ven'son's a Csesar in the fiercest fray ; 
Turtle an Alexander in its way ; 
And then, in quarrels of a slighter nature, 
Mutton's a most successful mediator ! 

Sir J. Gome, tell me fairly without more delay, 
What 'tis the tattling world hath dar'd to say. 

Pet. Thus, then, ' How dares that man his carcass squat, 
Bold in the sacred chair where Newton sat ; 
Whose eye could Nature's darkest veil pervade, 
And, sun-like, view the solitary maid ; 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 37 

Pursue the wand'rer through each secret maze, 

And on her labours dart a noontide blaze '? 

When to the chair Banks forc'd his bold ascent, 

He crawled a bug upon the monument. 

His words like stones for pavements, make us start ; 

Rude, roughly rumbling, tumbling from the cart ; 

Who for importance all his lungs employs, 

And think that words, like drums, were made for noise.' 

You see the world, Sir Joseph, scorns to flatter — 

Sir J. In truth, I think it hath not minc'd the matter. 
Yet, by all that's strange, good Peter, know, 
I'm honour'd, star'd at wheresoe'r I go ! 
Soon as a room I enter, lo, all ranks, 
Get up to compliment Sir Joseph Banks ! 

Pet. And then sit down again, I do suppose ; 
And then around the room a whisper goes, 
6 Lord, that's Sir Joseph Banks ! — how grand his look, 
Who sail'd all round the world with Captain Cook !* 

Sir J. Zounds ! what the devil's fame if this be not? 

Pet. Sir Joseph, prithee, don't be such a sot — 
Those wonderful admirers, man, were dozens 
Of fresh imported, staring country cousins; 
To London come, the waxwork to devour, 
And see their brother beasts within the Tow'r : 
True fame is praise by men of wisdom giv'n, 
Whose souls display some workmanship of Heav'n ; 
Not by the wooden million — Nature's chips, 
Whose twilight souls are ever in eclipse ; 
Puppies! who though on idiotism's dark brink, 
Because they've heads, dare fancy they can think ! 

Sir J. What though unlettered, I can lead the herd > 
And laugh at half the members to their beard. 
Frequent to court I go, and 'midst the ring, 
I catch most gracious whispers from the king — 

Pet. And well, I think, I hear each precious speech, 
In sentiment sublime, and language rich ; 
1 What's new, Sir Joseph ? what, what's new found out ? 
What's the society, what, what about ? 
Any more monsters, lizard, monkey, rat, 
Egg, weed, mouse, butterfly, pig, what, what, what V 

Such is the language of the first of kings, 
That many a sighing heart with envy stings ; 
And much I'm pleas'd to fancy that I hear 
{Such wise and gracious whispers greet your ear ; 



38 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER, 

Yet if the greater part of members growl, 
Though owls themselves, and curse you for an owl ; 
And bent the great Sir Joseph Banks to humble, 
Behold the Giant President must tumble. 

Pet. Zounds ! sir, the great ones to my whistle come ; 
I have 'em ev'ry one beneath my thumb. 
These shall arise, and with a single frown, 
Beat the bold front of opposition down. 

Pet. To hunt for days a lizard or a gnat, 
And run a dozen miles to catch a bat ; 
Are matters of proud triumph, to be sure, 
And such as fame's fair volume should secure: 
Yet to my mind, it is not such a feat 
As gives a man a claim to Newton's seat. 

Sir J. Yet are there men of genius who support me, 
Proud of my friendship, see Sir William court me! 

Pet. Sir William, hand and glove with Naples' king I 
Who made with rare antiques the nation ring ; 
Who when Vesuvius foamed with melted matter, 
March'd up and clapp'd his nose into the crater, 
Just with the same sang froid that Joan, the cook, 
Casts on her dumplings, in the pot, a look. 

Sir J. Lo, at my call the noble Marlb'rough's vote, 
Whose observations much our fame promote. 

Pray, then, what think ye of our famous Daines? 

Pet. Think of a man deny'd by nature brains I 
Who ever from old urns to crotchets leaps, 
Delights in music, and at concerts sleeps. 

Sir J. Zounds ! 'tis in vain, I see to utter praise ! — 

Pet. Then mention some one who deserves my lays. 

Sir J. Know then, I've sent to distant parts to find 
Beings the most uncommon of their kind : 
The greatest monsters of the land and water — 

Pet. The beautiful deformities of nature ! 
Birds without heads, and tails, and wings, and legs, 
Tremendous Cyclop pigs, and speckless eggs, 
Snails from Japan, and wasps, and Indian jays, 
Command attention, and excite our praise. 
Rare are the buttons of a Roman's breeches, 
In antiquarian eyes surpassing riches : 
Rare is each crack'd, black, rotten, earthen dish, 
That held of ancient Rome the flesh and fish : 
Yet these to gain, and give to public view, 
Lo ! Parkinson knows full as well as you ; 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 39 

As did Sir Ashton fam'd, whose mental pow'r 
Just reach'd to tell us by the clock the hour. 

Sir J. Poh I poh ! don't laugh — such things are rich and 
scarce — 
Be something sacred — let not all be farce. 

Pet. Sir Joseph, I must laugh when things like these 
Beyond sublimities have pow'r to please : 
To crowd with such-like littleness your walls, 
Is putting Master Punch into St. Paul's. 
Yet to the point — the place on which you dote 
Hath been for ever carried by the vote — 
Know then, your parasites begin to bellow : 
And call you openly a shallow fellow ; 
In vain to fav'ring majesty you fly, 
'Tis on the many that you must rely : 
E'en blockheads blush, so much are they asham'd — 

Sir J. They and their modest blushes may be hang'd. 
Ungrateful scoundrels ! eat my rolls and butter, 
And daring thus their insolences mutter ! 
Swallow my turtle and my beef by pounds, 
And tear my venison like a pack of hounds; 
Yet have the impudence, the brazen face, 
To say I am not fitted for the place ! 
Yet, let me hold by any means the chair ! 
To keep that honour, every thing I dare. 

Pet. In short, your gormandizers and your drinkers 
Quit their old faith and turn out rank freethinkers. 
Dead is the novelty of fine fat haunches, 
And truth no longer sacrificed to paunches : 
No charms surround the knocker of your door, 
That beam'd with honour, but now beams no more ! 

Sir J. Betray'd by those on whom my all depends ! — 

Pet. Betray'd, like Csesar, by his bosom friends! 
With solemn, sentimental step, so slow, 
I see you through the streets of London go, 
With poring, studious, staring, earth-nail'd eye, 
As heedless of the mob that bustles by ; 
This was a scheme of wisdom let me say, 
But lo, this trap for fame hath had its day ; 
And let me tell you, what I've urged before, 
The restless members look for something more. 

Sir J. Tell, then, each pretty president creator, 
Confound him, that I'll eat an alligator ! 

Pet. Sir Joseph, pray don't eat an alligator — 
Go swallow something of a softer nature ; 



40 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Feast on the arts and sciences, and learn 
Sublimity from trifle to discern ; 
With shells, and flies, and daises covered o'er, 
Let pert Queen Fiddlefaddle rule no more : 
Thus shall philosophy her suffrage yield, 
Sir Joseph wear his hat, and hammer wield ; 
No more shall Wisdom on the Journals stare, 
Nor Newton's image blush behind the chair. 



SECTION XV. 

dr. johnson — mr. gibbon Sir Joshua Reynolds. 

Johnson. No, Sir ; Garrick's fame was prodigious, not 
only in England, but all over Europe; even in Russia, I 
have been told, he was a proverb. When any one had re- 
peated well, he was called a second Garrick. 

Gibbon. I think he had full as much reputation as he 
deserved. 

J. I do not pretend to know, Sir, what .your meaning 
may be, by saying he had as much reputation as he deserv- 
ed. He deserved much, and he had much. 

G. Why surely, Dr. Johnson, his merit was in small 
things only. He had none of those qualities that make a 
real great man. 

J. Sir, I as little understand what your meaning may 
be, when you speak of the qualities that make a great man. 
It is a vague term. Garrick was no common man. A man 
above the common size may surely, without any great im- 
propriety, be called a great man. No, Sir ; it is undoubt- 
edly true, that the same qualities united with virtue or vice, 
make a hero or a rogue ; a great general or a highwayman. 
Now Garrick, we are sure, was never hanged, and in regard 
to his being a great man, you must take the whole man 
together. It must be considered in how many things Gar- 
rick excelled, in which every man desires to excel. Set- 
ting aside his excellence as an actor, in which he is ac- 
knowledged to be unrivalled, as a man, as a poet, as a con- 
vivial companion, you will find but few his equals, none his 
superior. As a man he was kind, friendly, benevolent, and 
generous. 

G. Of Garrick's generosity I never heard. I under- 
stood his character to be totally the reverse, and that he was 
reckoned to have loved money. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 41 

J. That he loved money nobody will dispute; — who 
does not ? But if you mean by loving money, that he was 
parsimonious to a fault, Sir, you have been misinformed. 
To Foote, and such scoundrels, who circulated those re- 
ports — to such profligate spendthrifts, prudence is mean- 
ness, and economy is avarice. That Garrick in early youth 
was brought up in strict habits of economy, I believe; and 
that they were necessary, I have heard from himself. In 
regard to his generosity, which you seem to question, I 
shall only say, there is no man to whom I would apply, with 
more confidence of success, for a loan of two hundred 
pounds to assist a common friend, than to David ; and this 
too with very little, if any, probability of its being repaid. 

G. You were going to say something of him as a writer. 
You don't rate him very high as a poet. 

J. Sir, a man may be a respectable poet, without being 
a Homer ; as a man may be a good player without being a 
Garrick. In the lighter kinds of poetry, in the appendages 
of the drama, he was, if not the first, in the very first class. 
He had a readiness and facility, a dexterity of mind, that 
appeared extraordinary even to men of experience, and 
who are not apt to wonder from ignorance. 

G. Garrick had some flippancy of parts, to be sure, and 
was brisk and lively in company; and by help of mimickry 
and story-telling, made himself a pleasant companion : but 
here the whole world gave the superiority to Foote, and 
Garrick himself appears to have felt as if his genius was 
rebuked by the superior powers of Foote. It has often been 
observed, that Garrick never dared to enter into competition 
with him, but was content to act an underpart to bring 
Foote out. 

J. That this conduct of Garrick might be interpreted 
by the gross minds of Foote, and his friends, as if he was 
afraid to encounter him, I cannot easily imagine. Of the 
natural superiority of Garrick over Foote, this conduct is 
an instance : he disdained entering into competition with 
such a fellow, and made him the buffoon of the company ; 
or, as you say, brought him out. No man, however high 
in rank, or literature, but was proud to know Garrick, and 
was glad to have him at his table ; no man ever considered 
or treated Garrick as a player; he may be said to have 
stepped out of his own rank into an higher, and by raising 
himself, he raised the rank of his profession. At a conviv^ 
ial table his exhilarating powers were unrivalled. He was 
E 



42 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

lively, entertaining, quick in discerning the ridicule of life, 
and as ready in representing it ; and on graver subjects 
there were few topicks in which he could not bear his part. 
It is injurious to the character of Garrick to be named in 
the same breath with Foote. That Foote was admitted 
sometimes into good company, (to do the man what credit 
I can) I will allow ; but then it was merely to play tricks. 
His merriment was that of a buffoon, and Garrick's that of 
a gentleman. 

G. I have been told, on the contrary, that Garrick in 
company had not the easy manners of a gentleman. 

J. Sir, I don't know what you may have been told, or 
what your ideas may be of the manners of gentlemen. 
Garrick had no vulgarity in his manners. It is true, Gar- 
rick had not the airiness of a fop ; nor did he assume an 
affected indifference to what was passing. He did not 
lounge from the table to the window, and from thence to 
the fire ; or whilst you were addressing your discourse to 
him, turn from you and talk to his next neighbour ; or give 
any indication that he was tired of his company. If such 
manners form your ideas of a fine gentleman, Garrick had 
them not. 

G. I mean that Garrick was more overawed by the 
presence of the great, and more obsequious to rank, than 
Foote, who considered himself as their equal, and treated 
them with the same familiarity as they treated each other. 

J. He did so, and what did the fellow get by it ? The 
grossness of his mind prevented him from seeing that this 
familiarity was merely suffered, as they would play with a 
dog. Garrick, by paying due respect to rank, respected 
himself. W hat he gave was returned ; and what was re- 
turned was kept for ever. His advancement was on firm 
ground — he was recognized in public, as well as respected 
in private ; and as no man was ever more courted, and bet- 
ter received by the public, so no man was ever less spoiled 
by its flattery. 

G. But you must allow, Dr. Johnson, that Garrick was 
too much a slave to fame, or rather to the mean ambition 
of living with the great — terribly afraid of making himself 
cheap even with them ; by which he debarred himself of 
much pleasant society. Employing so much attention, and 
so much management upon little things, implies, I think, a 
little mind. It was observed by his friend Colman, that he 
never went into company but with a plot how to get out of 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 43 

it. He was every minute called out, and went off or re- 
turned, as there was or was not a probability of his shining. 

J. In regard to his mean ambition, as you call it, of liv- 
ing with the great, what was the boast of Pope, and is ev- 
ery man's wish, can be no reproach to Garrick. He who 
says he despises it, knows he lies. That Garrick hus- 
banded his fame, the fame which he had justly acquired 
both at the theatre and at the table, is not denied ; but 
where is the blame either in the one case or the other, of 
leaving as little as he could to chance ? Besides, sir, con- 
sider what you have said. You first deny Garrick's pre- 
tensions to fame, and then accuse him of too great an at- 
tention to preserve what he never possessed. 

G. I don't understand 

J". I can't help that. 

G. Well, but Dr. Johnson, you will not vindicate him 
in his over and above attention to his fame; his ordinate 
desire to exhibit himself to new men ; like a coquette ever 
seeking after conquests, to the total neglect of old friends 
and admirers. 

" He threw off his friends like a huntsman his pack," — 
always looking out for new game. 

J. When you quoted the line from Goldsmith, you ought 
in fairness to have given what followed. " He knew when 
he pleas'd he could whistle them back." Which implies at 
least that he possessed a power over other men's minds 
approaching to fascination. 

G. But Garrick was not only excluded by this means 
from real friendship, but accused of treating those whom 
he called his friends with insincerity and double dealing. 

J. Sir, it is not true. His character in that respect is 
misunderstood. Garrick was, to be sure, very ready in 
promising ; but he intended at that time to fulfil his promise. 
He intended no deceit. His politeness, or his good nature, 
call it which you will, made him unwilling to deny. He 
wanted the courage to say no, even to unreasonable de- 
mands. This was the great error of his life. His friends 
became his enemies ; and those having been fostered in his 
bosom, well knew his sensibility to reproach, and they took 
care that he should be amply supplied with such bitter por- 
tions as they were capable of administering. Their impo- 
tent efforts he ought to have despised ; but he felt them ; 
nor did he affect insensibility. 

G, And that sensibility probably shortened his life. 



44 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER, 

J. No, sir ; he died of a disorder of which you or any 
other man may die, without being killed by too much sen- 
sibility. 

G. But you will allow, however, that this sensibility — 
those fine feelings, made him the great actor he was. 

J. This is all cant ; fit only for kitchen wenches and 
chamber maids. Garrick's trade was to represent passion ^ 
not to feel it. Ask Reynolds whether he felt the distress 
of Count Hugolino when he drew it. 

G. But surely he feels the passion at the moment he is* 
representing it. 

J. About as much as Punch feels. That Garrick him- 
self gave into this foppery of feelings^ I can easily believe ; 
but he knew at the same time that he lied. He might 
think it right, as far as I know, to have what fools imagined 
he ought to have ; but it is amazing that any should be so 
ignorant as to think that an actor will risk his reputation 
by depending on the feelings that shall be excited in the 
presence of two hundred people,, on the repetition of words 
that he has repeated two hundred times before,, in what ac- 
tors call their study. No, sir ; Garrick left nothing to 
chance. Every gesture, every expression of countenance^ 
and variety of voice, was settled in his closet before he set 
his foot upon the stage. 



SECTION XVI. 

EXTRACT FROM MR. SULLIVAN'S DISCOURSE AT PLYMOUTH^ 
DEC 22, 1829. 

How embarrassing is it to select ; impossible is it to 
touch, however lightly r on all that interests and affects the 
descendants of the Pilgrims. Let us first render our hom- 
age to these illustrious men in the days of their adventure 
and peril. Availing ourselves of a fiction, often less rev- 
erentially and piously resorted to, let us be the spectators 
of the scene in which they were engaged , let us stand up- 
on the shore which our Fathers were approaching. 

Here begins that vast wilderness which no civilized man 
has beheld. Whither does it extend, and what is contained 
within its unmeasured limits ? Through what thousands of 
years has it undergone no change, but in the silent move- 
ments of renovation and decay. To how many vernal sea- 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 45 

sons has it unfolded its leaves ; — to how many autumnal 
frosts has it yielded its verdure. This unvaried solitude ! 
What has disturbed its tranquillity, through uncounted ages, 
but the rising of the winds, or the rending of the storms ! 
What sounds have echoed through its deep recesses, but 
those of craving and of rage from the beasts which it shel- 
ters ; or the war-song and the war-whoop of its sullen, 
smileless masters ! Man — social, inventive, improving man 
— his footstep, his handywork, are nowhere discerned. The 
beings who wear his form have added nothing to knowledge, 
through all their generations. Like the game which they 
pursue, they are the same now, which their progenitors 
were, when their race began. These distant and widely 
separated columns of smoke, that throw their graceful 
columns towards the sky, indicate no social, no domestic 
abodes. The snows have descended to cover the fallen fo- 
liage of the departed year ; the winds pass, with a mournful 
sound, through the leafless branches; the Indian has re- 
tired to his dark dwelling ; and the tenants of the forest 
have hidden themselves in the earth, to escape the search 
of winter. 

This ocean that spreads out before us ! how many of its 
mountain waves rise up between us and the abodes of civ- 
ilized men. Its surges break and echo on this lonely shore, 
as they did when the storms first waked them from their 
sleep, without having brought, or carried, any work of hu- 
man hands, unless it be the frail canoe, urged on by hunger 
or revenge. How appalling is this solitude of the wilder- 
ness ! How cheerless this wide waste of waters, on which 
nothing moves ! 

A new object rises to our view ! It is that proud result 
of human genius, which finds its way where it leaves no 
trace of itself, yet connects the severed continents of the 
globe. It is full of human beings, of a complexion unknown 
in this far distant clime. They come from a world skilled 
in the social arts. Are they adventuiers, thirsting for gain, 
or seeking, in these unexplored regions, new gifts for the 
treasury of science ? Their boats are filled ; they touch 
the land. They are followed by tender females, and more 
tender offspring ; such beings as a wild desert never before 
received. They commence the making of habitations. 
They disembark their goods. Have they abandoned their 
returning ship ? Are they to encounter, in their frail ten- 
ements, the winter's tempest and the accumulating snows ? 
E 2 



46 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



Do they know, that these dark forests, through which even 
the winds come not without dismal and terrifying sound, is 
the home of the savage, whose first prompting is to destroy, 
that he may rob? Do they know that disease must be the 
inmate of their dwellings in their untried exposure ? If the 
savage, if disease, selects no victims, will famine stay its 
merciless hand? Do they know how slowly the forest 
yields to human industry ? Do they realize how long, how 
lonesome, how perilous it will be, to their little group, be- 
fore want can be supplied and security obtained ? Can 
they have come, voluntarily, to encounter all these una- 
voidable evils? Have they given up their native land, their 
precious homes, their kind friends, their kindred, the com- 
fort and the fellowship of civilized and polished life ? Is 
this the evidence of affectionate solicitude of husbands, of 
anxious tenderness of parents, or the sad measure of dis- 
tempered minds? Wherefore are they come ? What did 
they suffer, what did they fear, what do they expect, or hope, 
that they have chosen exile here, and to become the watch- 
ful neighbour of the treacherous Indian I 

They gather themselves together, and assume the posture 
of humble devotion. They pour forth the sentiments of 
praise, of hope, of unshaken confidence. They cast them- 
selves, their wives, their children, into the arms of that 
beneficent Parent, who is present in the wilderness no less 
than the crowded city. It is to Him that they look for 
support, amidst the wants of nature, for shelter against the 
storm, for protection against the savage, for relief in disease. 



SECTION XVII. 

rienzi — angelo Miss Mitford. 

Rienzi. . Friends, 

I come not here to talk. Ye know too well 
The story of our thraldom. We are slaves! 
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights 
A race of slaves ! He sets, and his last beam 
Falls on a slave : not such as, swept along 
By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads 
To crimson glory and undying fame ; 
But base, ignoble slaves— slaves to a horde 
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots ; lords ; 
Rich in some dozen paltry villages— 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



4? 



Strong in some hundred spearmen — only great 

In that strange spell — a name. Eacii hour, dark fraud, 

Or open rapine, or protected murder, 

Cry out against them. But this wry day, 

An honest man, my neighbour — there he stands — - 

Was struck — struck like a dog, by cue who wore 

The badge of Ursini ; because, forsooth, 

He tossed not high his ready cap in air, 

Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts, 

At sight of that great ruffian. Be we men, 

And suffer such dishonour? Men, and wash not 

The stain away in blood ? Such shames are common. 

I have known deeper wrongs. 1, that speak to ye, 

I had a brother once, a gracious boy, 

Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope — 

Of sweet and quiet joy — there was the look 

Of heaven upon his face, which limners give 

To the beloved disciple. How I loved 

That gracious boy ! Younger by fifteen years, 

Brother at once and son ! He left my side, 

A summer bloom on his fair cheeks — a smile 

Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour 

The pretty harmless boy was slain ! I saw 

The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried 

For vengeance ! — Rouse, ye Romans ! — Rouse, ye slaves ! 

Have ye brave sons ? Look in the next fierce brawl 

To see them die. Have ye fair daughters? Look 

To see them live, torn from your arms, distained, 

Dishonoured ; and, if ye dare call for justice, 

Be answered by the lash. Yet, this is Rome, 

That sate on her seven hills, and from her throne 

Of beauty ruled the world ! Yet, we are Romans. 

Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman 

Was greater than a king ! And once again — 

Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread 

Of either Brutus ! once again, I swear, 

The eternal city shall be free ! her sons 

Shall walk with princes. 

Angela. ng.) What be ye, 

That thus in stern and watchful mystery 
Cluster beneath the veil of night, and start 
To hear a stranger's Lot ? 

Rie. Romans. 

Aug. And wherefore 

Meet ye, my countrymen ? 



48 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Rie. For freedom. 

Ang. Surely, 

Thou art Cola di Rienzi ? 

Rie. Ay, the voice — 

The traitor voice. 

Ang. I knew thee by the words. 

Who, save thyself, in this bad age, when man 
Lies prostrate like yon temple, dared conjoin 
The sounds of Rome and freedom 1 

Rie. I shall teach 

The world to blend those words, as in the days 
Before the Caesars. Thou shalt be the first 
To hail the union. I have seen thee hang 
On tales of the world's mistress, till thine eyes 
Flooded with strong emotion, have let fall 
Big tear drops on thy cheeks, and thy young hand 
Hath clenched thy maiden sword. Unsheath it now — 
Now, at thy country's call ! What, dost thou pause ? 
Is the flame quenched ? Dost falter? Hence with thee, 
Pass on ! pass whilst thou may ! 

Ang. Hear me, Rienzi. 

Even now my spirit leaps up at the thought 
Of those brave storied days — a treasury 
Of matchless visions, bright and glorified, 
Paling the dim lights of this darkling world 
With the golden blaze of heaven, but past and gone, 
As clouds of yesterday, as last night's dream. 

Rie. A dream ! Dost see yon phalanx, still and stern ? 
An hundred leaders, each with such a band, 
So armed, so resolute, so fixed in will, 
Wait with suppressed impatience till they hear 
The great bell of the Capitol, to spring 
At once on their proud foes. Join them. 

Ang. My father ! 

Rie. Already he hath quitted Rome. 

Ang. My kinsmen ! 

Rie. We are too strong for contest. Thou shalt see 
No other change within our peaceful streets 
Than that of slaves to freemen. Such a change 
As is the silent step from night to day, 
From darkness into light. We talk too long. 

Ang. Yet reason with them — warn them. 

Rie. And their answer — 

Will be the gaol, the gibbet, or the axe. 
The keen retort of power. Why, I have reasoned ; 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 49 

And, but that I am held, amongst your great ones, 
Half madman and half fool, these bones of mine 
Had whitened on yon wall. Warn them ! They met 
At every step dark warnings. The pure air, 
Where'er they passed, was heavy with the weight 
Of sullen silence; friend met friend, nor smiled, 
Till the last footfall of the tyrant's steed 
Had died upon the ear ; and low and hoarse 
Hatred came murmuring like the deep voice 
Of the wind before the tempest. 

Ang. Til join ye ; 

[Gives his hand to Rienzi. 
How shall I swear ? 

Rie. (To the people.) Friends, comrades, countrymen, 
I bring unhoped-for aid. Young Angelo, 
The immediate heir of the Colonna, craves 
To join your band. 

Ang. Hear me swear 

By Rome — by freedom — by Rienzi ! Comrades, 
How have ye titled your deliverer ? consul — 
Dictator, emperor ? 

Rie. No— 

Those names have been so often steeped in blood, 
So shamed by folly, so profaned by sin, 
The sound seems ominous — I'll none of them. 
Call me the tribune of the people ; there 
My honouring duty lies. Hark — the bell, the bell ! 
The knell of tyranny — the mighty voice, 
That to the city and the plain — to earth, 
And listening heaven, proclaims the glorious tale 
Of Rome re-born, and freedom. See, the clouds 
Are swept away, and the moon's boat of light 
Sails in the clear blue sky, and million stars 
Look out on us, and smile. 



SECTION XVIIL 

SNUG BOTTOM FLUTE — 'QUINCE STARVELING, 

Shakspeare. 

Quince. Is all your company here ? 

Bottom. You were best to call them generally, man by 
man, according to the scrip. 

Quin. Here is the scroll of every man's name, which 
is thought fit, through all Athens, to play in our interlude 
before the duke and duchess, on his wedding day at night. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Bot. First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats 
on; then read the names of the actors ; and so grow to a 
point. 

Quin. Marry, our play is — The most lamentable com- 
edy, and most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby. 

Bot. A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a 
merry. Now, good Peter Quince, call forth your actors by 
the scroll . — Masters, spread yourselves. 

Quin. Answer, as I call you. Nick Bottom, the weaver. 

Bot. Ready. Name what part I am for, and proceed. 

Quin. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus. 

Bot. What is Pyramus ? a lover or a tyrant? 

Quin. A lover, that kills himself most gallantly for love. 

Bot. That will ask some tears in the true performing 
of it. If I do it, let the audience look to their . eyes ; I 
will move storms, I will condole in some measure. To the 
rest : — Yet my chief humour is for a tyrant ; I could play 
Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make all split. 
" The raging rocks, 
With shivering shocks, 
Shall break the locks 

Of prison gates : 
And Phibbus' car 
Shall shine from far, 
And make and mar 
The foolish fates." 

This was lofty ! — Now name ' the rest of the players. 
This is Ercles' vein, a tyrant's vein ; a lover is more con- 
doling. 

Quin. Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. 

Flu. Here, Peter Quince. 

Quin. You must take Thisby on you. 

Flu. What is Thisby ? a wandering knight. 

Quin. It is the lady that Pyramus must love. 

Flu. Nay, faith, let me not play a woman ; I have a 
beard a coming. 

Quin. That's all one ; you shall play it in a mask, and 
you may speak as small as you will. 

Bot. An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby too ; 
I'll speak in a monstrous little voice: — Thisbe, Thisbe, 
Ah, Pyramus, my lover dear ; thy Thisby, dear ! and lady 
dear ! 

Quin. No, no ; you must play Pyramus ; — and, Flute, 
you Thisby. 

Bot. Well, proceed. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 51 

Quin. Robin Starveling, the tailor. 

Star. Here, Peter Quince. 

Quin. Robin Starveling, you must play Thisby's 
mother. Myself, Thisby's father; — Snug, the joiner, you, 
the lion's part : — and, I hope, here is a play fitted. 

Snug. Have you the lion's part written 1 pray you, if it 
be, give it to me, for I am slow of study. 

Quin. You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but 
roaring. 

Bot. Let me play the lion too : I will roar, that I will 
do any man's heart good to hear me ; I will roar that I 
will make the duke say, Let Mm roar again, Let him roar 
again. 

Quin. An you should do it too terribly, you would fright 
the duchess and the ladies, that they would shriek ; and 
that were enough to hang us all. 

All. That would hang us, every mother's son. 

Bot. I grant you, friends, if that you should fright the 
ladies out of their wits, they would have no more discre- 
tion but to hang us ; but I will aggravate my voice so, that 
1 will roar you as gently as any sucking dove ; I will roar 
you an 'twere any nightingale. 

Quin. You can play no part but Pyramus : for Pyramus 
is a sweet-faced man ; a proper man, as one shall see in a 
summer's day ; a most lovely, gentleman-like man ; there- 
fore you must needs play Pyramus. 

Bot. Well, I will undertake it. What beard were I best 
to play it in? 

Quin. Why, what you will. 

Bot. I will discharge it in either your straw-coloured 
beard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain beard, 
or your French-crown-colour beard, your perfect yellow. 

Quin. Some of your French crowns have no hair at 
all, and then you will play bare-faced. But, masters, here 
are your parts ; and I am to entreat you, request you, and 
desire you, to con them by to-morrow night; and meet me 
in the palace wood, a mile without the town, by moon-light ; 
there will we rehearse : for if we meet in the city, we shall 
be dogg'd with company, and our devices known. In the 
mean time I will draw a bill of properties, such as our play 
wants. I pray you, fail me not. 

Bot. We will meet ; and there we may rehearse more 
freely, and courageously. Take pains ; be perfect ; adieu. 



53 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

SECTION XIX. 

BASSANIO SHYLOCK ANTONIO Ibid, 

Shylock. Three thousand ducats, — well. 

Bassanio. Ay, sir, for three months. 

Shy. For three months, — well. 

Bas. For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be 
bound. 

Shy. Antonio shall become bound, — well. 

Bas. May you stead me ? Will you pleasure me 1 Shall 
I know your answer ? 

Shy. Three thousand ducats, for three months, and 
Antonio bound ? 

Bas. Your answer to that. 

Shy. Antonio is a good man. 

Bas. Have you heard any imputation to the contrary ? 

Shy. Ho, no, no, no, no ; — my meaning, in saying he 
is a good man, is to have you understand me, that he is 
sufficient ; yet his means are in supposition ; he hath an 
argosy bound to Tripolis, another to the Indies ; I under- 
stand moreover upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, 
a fourth for England, — and other ventures he hath, squan- 
dered abroad : But ships are but boards, sailors but men ; 
there be land-rats, and water-rats, water-thieves, and land- 
thieves ; I mean, pirates ; and then, there is the peril of 
waters, winds, and rocks. The man is, notwithstanding, 
Sufficient; — three thousand ducats; — I think, 1 may take 
his bond. 

Bas. Be assured you may. 

Shy. I will be assured, I may ; and, that I may be as- 
sured, 1 will bethink me : May 1 speak with Antonio ? 

Bas. If it please you to dine with us. 

Shy. Yes, to smell pork ! I will buy with you, sell with 
you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following; but 
I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. 
What news on the Rialto ? — Who is he comes here ? 

[Enter Antonio. 

Bas. This is signior Antonio. 

Shy. (aside.) How like a fawning publican he looks ! 
I hate him for he is a christian : 
But more, for that, in low simplicity, 
He lends out money gratis, and brings down 
The rate of usance here with us in Venice, 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



53 



If I can catch him once upon the hip, 

I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. 

He hates our sacred nation ; and he rails, 

Even there where merchants most do congregate, 

On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, 

Which he calls interest : Cursed be my tribe, 

If I forgive him ! 

Bas. Shylock, do you hear ? 

Shy. I am debating of my present store ; 
And, by the near guess of my memory, 
I cannot instantly raise up the gross 
Of full three thousand ducats : What of that? 
Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe, 
Will furnish me : But soft — How many months 
Do you desire? — Rest you fair, good signior; [To Antonio. 
Your worship was the last man in our mouths. 

Ant. Shylock, albeit I never lend nor borrow, 
By taking, nor by giving of excess, 
Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend, 
I'll break a custom : — Is he yet possess'd, 
How much you would ? 

Shy. Ay, ay, three thousand ducats. 

'Tis a good round sum. 
Three months from twelve, then let me see the rate. 

Ant. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholden to you? 

Shy. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft, 
In the Rialto you have rated me 
About my monies, and my usances : 
Still have I borne it with a patient shrug ; 
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe : p 
You call me — misbeliever, cut-throat, dog, 
And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine, 
And all for use of that which is mine own. 
Well then, it now appears, you need my help ; 
Go to then ; you come to me, and say, 
' Shylock, we would have monies :' You say so ; 
You that did void your rheum upon my beard, 
And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur 
Over your threshold ; moneys is your suit. 
What should I say to you ? Should I not say, 
' Hath a dog money ? is it possible, 
A cur can lend three thousand ducats?' or 
Shall I bend low, and in a bondman's key, 
With 'bated breath, and whispering humbleness, 
F 



54 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER, 



Say this, — 

' Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last ; 
You spurn'd me such a day ; another time 
You caird me — dog ; and for these courtesies 
I'll lend thee thus much monies/ 

Ant. I am as like to call thee so again, 
To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too. 
If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not 
As to thy friends ; (for when did friendship take 
A breed for barren metal of his friend ?) 
But lend it rather to thine enemy ; 
Who if he break, thou may'st with better face 
Exact the penalty. 

Shy. Why, look you, how you storm ! 

I would be friends with you, and have your love ; 
Forget the shames that you have stain'd me with, 
Supply your present wants, and take no doit 
Of usance for my monies, and you'll not hear me : 
This is kind I offer. 

Ant. This were kindness. 

Shy. This kindness will I show : — 
Go with me to a notary, seal me there 
Your single bond ; and, in a merry sport, 
If you repay me not on such a day, 
In such a place, such sum or sums, as are 
Expressed in the condition, let the forfeit 
Be nominated for an equal pound 
Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken 
In what part of your body pleaseth me. 

Ant. Content in faith ; I'll seal to such a bond, 
And say, there is much kindness in the Jew. 
JBas. You shall not seal to such a bond for me, 

I'd rather dwell in my necessity. 

Ant. Why, fear not man ; I will not forfeit it : 

Within these two months, that's a month before 

This bond expires, I do expect return 

Of thrice three times the value of this bond. 

Shy. O father Abraham, what these Christians are ; 

Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect 

The thoughts of others ! Pray you, tell me this ; 

If he should break his day, what should I gain 

By the exaction of the forfeiture ? 

A pound of man's flesh, taken from a man, 

Is not so estimable, profitable neither, 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 55 

As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. T say, 
To buy his favour, 1 extend this friendship : 
If he will take it, so ; if not, adieu ; 
And, for my love, I pray you, wrong me not. 

Ant. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond. 

Shy. Then meet me forthwith at the notary's ; 
Give him direction for this merry bond, 
And I will go and purse the ducats straight ; 
See to my house, left in the fearful guard 
Of an unthrifty knave ; and presently 
I will be with you. [Exit. 

Ant. Hie thee, gentle Jew. 

This Hebrew will turn Christian ; he grows kind. 

Bas. I like not fair terms, and a villain's mind. 

Ant. Come on ; in this there can be no dismay, 
My ships come home a month before the day. 



SECTION XX. 

SPEECH OF MARINO FALIERO Lord ByrOR. 

You see me here, 
As one of you hath said, an old, unarm'd, 
Defenceless man : and yesterday you saw me 
Presiding in the hall of ducal state, 
Apparent sovereign of our hundred isles, 
Robed in official purple, dealing out 
The edicts of a power which is not mine, 
Nor yours, but of our masters — the patricians. 
Why I was there, you know — or think you know ; 
Why I am here, he who hath been most wrong'd, 
He who among you hath been most insulted, 
Outraged and trodden on, until he doubt 
If he be worm or no, may answer for me, 
Asking of his own heart what brought him here ? 
You know my recent story, all men know it, 
And judge of it far differently from those 
Who sate in judgment to heap scorn on scorn. 
But spare me the recital — it is here, 
Here at my heart the outrage — but my words, 
Already spent in unavailing plaints, 
Would only show my feebleness the more, 
And I come here to strengthen even the strong, 



56 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER, 



And urge them on to deeds, and not to war 

With woman's weapons : but I need not urge you. 

Our private wrongs have sprung from public vices 

In this — I cannot call it commonwealth, 

Nor kingdom, which hath neither prince nor people, 

But all the sins of the old Spartan state 

Without its virtues — temperance and valour. 

The lords of Lacedemon were true soldiers, 

But ours are Sybarites, while we are Helots, 

Of whom I am the lowest, most enslaved, 

Although drest out to head a pageant, as 

The Greeks of yore made drunk their slaves to form 

A pastime for their children. You are met 

To overthrow this monster of a state, 

This mockery of a government, this spectre, 

Which must be exorcised with blood, and then 

We will renew the times of truth and justice. 

Condensing in a fair free commonwealth 

Not rash equality, but equal rights, 

Proportioned like the columns to the temple, 

Giving and taking strength reciprocal, 

And making firm the whole with grace and beauty, 

So that no part could be removed without 

Infringement of the general symmetry. 

In operating this great change, 1 claim 

To be one of you — if you trust in me; 

If not, strike home, — my life is compromised, 

And I would rather fall by freemen's hands 

Than live another day to act the tyrant, 

As delegate of tyrants ; such I am not, 

And never have been — read it in our annals ; 

I can appeal to my past government 

In many lands and cities ; they can tell you 

If I were an oppressor, or a man 

Feeling and thinking for my fellow-men. 

Haply had I been what the senate sought, 

A thing of robes and trinkets, dizen'd out 

To sit in state as for a sovereign's picture ; 

A popular scourge, a ready sentence-signer, 

A stickler for the senate and " the Forty," 

A sceptic of all measures which had not 

The sanction of " the Ten/' a council-fawner, 

A tool, a fool, a puppet,— they had ne'er 

Foster'd the wretch who stung me. What I suffer 

Has reach'd me through my pity for the people i 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 57 

That many know, and they who know not yet 

Will one day learn : meantime, I do devote, 

Whatever the issue, my last days of life — 

My present power such as it is, not that 

Of Doge, but of a man who has been great 

Before he was degraded to a Doge, 

And still has individual means and mind ; 

1 stake my fame (and I had fame) — my breath — 

(The least of all, for its last hours are nigh) 

My heart — my hope — my soul — upon this cast ! 

Such as I am, I offer me to you, 

And to your chiefs, accept me or reject me, 

A prince who fain would be a citizen 

Or nothing, and who has left his throne to be so. 



SECTION XXI. 

BARFORD TORRENT George ColmGLKl. 

JBarford. Rest there, my whole property ! — the remains 
of many a wreck, rest there ! 

Torrent. Eh ! Zounds ! Wreck ! He looks like a gen- 
tleman. Pray, sir, how came the wreck of all your prop- 
erty tied up in such a small pocket-handkerchief? 

Bar. By what right, sir, do you inquire ? 

Tor. By the right that lugg'd me out of the horsepond 
— the right of running to any man's assistance who seems 
to be stuck in the mud. 

Bar. (turning from Mm.) Pshaw ! Sir, you are obtru- 
sive. 

Tor. Why, it was rather rude to be reading the news- 
paper in my own room, when you chose to walk in, and in- 
terrupt me. 

Bar. This is the parlour of a village inn, sir ; where 
'tis the custom to huddle people together indiscriminately. 
5 Tis an emblem of the world ! men mingle in it from ne- 
cessity, as we do now, till they part in dislike, as we may 
do presently. 

Tor. We seem to bid fair for it: for I detest misan- 
thropy. 

Bar. J Tis the opium to our affections ; an antidote to 
the drivelling unwillingness dotards feel to be swept from 
hypocrites who have professed to regard them. 
F 2 



58 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Tor. Opium — and antidote ! — You've dealt with a vil- 
lanous apothecary. Hatred to mankind is Lucifer's own 
laudanum ; and, whenever he coaxes a christian to swallow 
it, he sends one of his imps to shake the bottle. All men 
hypocrites! Zounds! here's a doctrine! So, then, love, 
and friendship, and — 

Bar. Love and friendship, are, at best, life's fading 
roses ; but reject the roses, and you escape many a thorn. 

Tor. How should you like to lose your legs? 

Bar. Why my legs, sir ? 

Tor. They are part of the fading blessings of life, like 
love and friendship ; but you may have the gout. Reject 
your legs, and you may escape many a twinge in your great 
toe. 

Bar. T have sufTer'd deprivations enough already, sir. 

Tor. 1 give you joy of them ; for, according to your 
own account, they must make you very comfortable. But 
you have deprived yourself of that which your worst ene- 
my's malice should never have taken from you. 

Bar. What is it ? 

Tor. Universal benevolence ; the chain of reason in 
which we all, willingly, bind ourselves. Nature gave us 
the links, and civilized humanity has polished them. 

B.ar. And how often are the links of reason and nature 
broken by sophistry and art ! 

Tor. I'm sorry for it. I know there are rascals ; but 
the world is good in the lump ; and I love all human kind — 
kings, lords, commons, duchesses, tallow-chandlers, dairy- 
maids, Indian chiefs, ambassadors, washerwomen, and tin- 
kers. They have all their claims upon my regard, in their 
different stations ; and, whatever you may think, hang me 
if I don't believe there are honest attorneys ! 

Bar. You have been fortunate in the world, I perceive. 

Tor. I have been fortunate enough in my temper to 
keep the milk of human kindness from curdling. 

Bar. By having no acids squeezed into it. 

Tor. Plenty: who hasn't? But, when you were put 
out to nurse, hang me if I don't think you sucked a lemon ! 
You have a fine field to fatten in, upon others' calamities 
here. Only look out. Pretty havock from the fire ! There's 
a house, now, that would just suit you. It sticks up by it- 
self, gloomy and gutted, in the midst of the rubbish. 

Bar. That ivas my residence, sir ; my refuge, as I 
hoped, during the remainder of my life, from ingratitude 
and treachery. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 59 

Tor. Did — did — did you live in that house ? 

Bar. Eight months ago, I enter'd its door, to take pos- 
session of an humble lodging ; and last night, I leap'd with 
difficulty, amidst the flames, through its window. 

Tor. Out at — that window ? 

Bar. Yes ; with that wreck of property, on which you 
have been pleas' d so much to question me. 

Tor. My dear sir, you are an unfortunate man ; I have 
behav'd like a brute, and I beg your pardon. 

Bar. I feel no anger, sir. 

Tor. Then, you despise me. I know you must, for 
I have treated you cruelly ; but, as you have taken of- 
fence at all the world, don't think me too contemptible to 
be left out of the number. Pray, be angry with me, then 
show me you forgive me by telling me how to serve you — T 
happen to be rich. 

Bar. And I happen to be poor ; but I will always be 
independent, and will accept no favours. 

Tor. That's right ; but I have taken a house in the 
neighbourhood — Dine with me every day. That will only 
be doing me a favour, you know. 

Bar. Excuse me ; but before I leave you, sir, one word 
which, I think, I owe you. 

Tor. I won't take back a shil — I mean, you don't owe 
me a syllable. 

Bar. Pardon me, and I must pay it. Your impulses, 
apparently, proceed from benevolence ; but your impetuos- 
ity may render you an offence to the sensitive, and a dupe 
to the designing. Farewell, sir. [Exit. 

Tor. That advice is a little too late to a man at fifty. 
My impulses are like old radishes ; they have stuck so long 
in the soil, that, whenever they are drawn out, they are sure 
to be hot. 



SECTION XXII. 

Sebastian — dorax Dry den. 

Borax. Now do you know me? 

Sebastian. Thou shouldst be Alonzo. 

Dor. So you should be Sebastian ; 
But when Sebastian ceased to be himself, 
I ceased to be Alonzo. 



60 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Seb. As in a dream, 

I see thee here, and scarce believe mine eyes. 

Dor. Is it so strange to find me where my wrongs 
And your inhuman tyranny, have sent me? 
Think not you dream ; or, if you did, my injuries 
Shall call so loud, that lethargy should wake ; 
And death should give you back to answer me. 
A thousand nights have brush'd their balmy wings 
Over these eyes ; but ever, when they closed, 
Your tyrant image forced them ope again, 
And dried the dews they brought. 
The long-expected hour is come at length, 
By manly vengeance to redeem my fame ; 
And, that once cleared, eternal sleep is welcome. 

Seb. I have not yet forgot I am a king, 
Whose royal office is redress of wrongs ; 
If I have wronged thee, charge me face to face ; 
I have not yet forgot I am a soldier. 

Dor. 'Tis the first justice thou hast ever done me ; 
Then, tho' I loath this woman's war of tongue, 
Yet shall my cause of vengeance first be clear ; 
And, Honour, be thou judge. 

Seb. Honour, befriend us both. 
Beware ! I warn thee yet to tell thy griefs 
In terms becoming majesty to hear : 
I warn thee thus, because I know thy temper 
Is insolent and haughty to superiors : 
How often hast thou brav'd my peaceful court, 
FilPd it with noisy brawls, and windy boasts ; 
And with past service, nauseously repeated, 
Reproached even me, thy prince ! 

Dor. And well I might, when you forgot reward. 
I must and will reproach thee with my service, 
Tyrant ! (it irks me so to call my prince) 
But just resentment and hard usage coined 
Th' unwilling word ; and, grating as it is, 
Take it, for 'tis thy due. 

Seb. How, tyrant ! 

Dor. Tyrant ! 

Seb. Traitor ! that name thou canst not echo back ; 
That robe of infamy, that circumcision 
IJ1 hid beneath that robe, proclaim thee traitor : 
And, if a name 
More foul than traitor be, 'tis renegade. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



61 



Dor. If I'm a traitor, think, and blush, thou tyrant, 
Whose injuries betrayed me into treason. 

Seb. Thy old presumptuous arrogance again, 
That bred my first dislike, and then my loathing. 
Once more be warn'd, and know me for thy king. 

Dor. Too well I know thee, but for king no more : 
This is not Lisbon, nor the circle this, 
Where, like a statue, thou hast stood besieged 
By sycophants and fools, the growth of courts ; 
Where thy gulPd eyes in all the gaudy round 
Met nothing but a lie in every face ; 
And the gross flattery of a gaping crowd, 
Envious who first should catch and first applaud 
The stuff or royal nonsense ; when I spoke, 
My honest homely words were carped and censured, 
For want of courtly style : related actions, 
Though modestly reported, passed for boasts ; 
Secure of merit, if I ask reward, 
Thy hungry minions thought their rights invaded, 
And the bread snatched from worthless parishes. 
Henriquez answered, with a ready lie, 
To save his king's, the boon was begged before. 

Seb. What say'st thou of Henriquez ? 
Thou mov'st me more by barely naming him, 
Than all thy foul unmannered scurril taunts. 

Dor. And therefore 'twas to gall thee, that I nam'd him^ 
That thing, that nothing but a cringe and smile. 

Seb. I meant thee a reward of greater worth. 

Dor. When justice wanted, could reward be hoped? 
Could the rob'd passenger expect a bounty 
From those rapacious hands who stripp'd him first ? 

Seb. He had my promise, ere I knew thy love. 

Dor. My services deserved thou shouldst revoke it. 

Seb. Thy insolence had cancell'd all thy service > 
To violate my laws, even in my court, 
Sacred to peace, and safe from all affronts ; 
Even to my face, and done in my despite, 
Under the wing of awful majesty, 
To strike the man I lov'd ! So was I forced 
To do a sovereign justice to myself, 
And spurn thee from my presence. 

Dor. Thou hast dared 

To tell me what I durst not tell myself; 
I durst not think that I was spurn'd, and live; 
And live to hear it boasted to my face ; 



0«5 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

All my long avarice of honour lost, 

Heaped up in youth, and hoarded up for age ; 

Has honour's fountain then sucked back the stream ? 

He has ; and hooting boys may dryshod pass, 

And gather pebbles from the naked ford. 

Give me my love, my honour ; give them back : 

Give me revenge while I have breath to ask it. 

Seb. Now by this honoured order which I w T ear, 
More gladly would I give than thou dar'st ask it : 
Nor shall the sacred character of king 
Be urged to shield me from thy bold appeal. 
If I have injured thee, that makes us equal : 
The wrong, if done, debased me down to thee. 
But thou hast charg'd me with ingratitude : 
Hast thou not charged me ? Speak. 

Dor. Thou know'st 1 have : 
If thou disown'st that imputation, draw, 
And prove my charge a lie. 

Seb. No ; to disprove that charge I must not draw : 
Be conscious to thy worth, and tell thy soul 
What thou hast done this day in my defence ; 
To fight thee after this, what where it else 
Than owning that ingratitude thou urgest 1 
That isthmus stands between two rushing seas ; 
Which mounting view each other from afar, 
And strive in vain to meet. 

Dor. I'll cut that isthmus : 

Thou know'st I meant not to preserve thy life, 
But to reprieve it for my own revenge. 
I saved thee out of honourable malice : 
Now draw ; I should be loth to think thou dar'st not : 
Beware of such another vile excuse. 

Seb. O, patience ! 

Dor. Beware of patience too ! 

That's a suspicious word ; it had been proper, 
Before thy foot had spurned me ; now 'tis base : 
Yet to disarm thee of thy last defence, 
I have thy oath for my security : 
The only boon I begg'd was this fair combat; 
Fight, or be perjur'd now ; that's all thy choice. 

Seb. Now can I thank thee as thou wouldst be thank'd : 
Never was vow of honour better paid, 
If my true sword but hold, than this shall be. 
Go ; bear my message to Henriquez' ghost, 
And say his master and his friend reveng'd him. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 63 

Dor. His ghost ! then is my hated rival dead 1 

Seb. The question is beside our present purpose. 
Thou seest me ready ; we delay too long. 

Dor. A minute is not much in either's life, 
When there's but one betwixt us ; throw it in, 
And give it him of us who is to fall. 

Seb. He's dead : make haste, and thou may'st yet over- 
take him. 

Dor. When I was hasty, thou delay'st me longer. 
I pr'ythee let me hedge one moment more 
Into thy promise : for thy life preserved, 
Be kind : and tell me how that rival died, 
Whose death, next thine, I wished. 

Seb. If it would please thee, thou shouldst never know : 
But thou, like jealousy, inquir'st a truth, 
Which found, will torture thee : he died in fight ; 
Fought next my person, as in concert fought ; 
Kept pace for pace, and blow for every blow ; 
Save when he heav'd his shield in my defence, 
And on his naked side received my wound : 
Then, when he could no more, he fell at once, 
But roll'd his falling body cross their way, 
And made a bulwark of it for his prince. 

Dor. I never can forgive him such a death ! 

Seb. Confess, proud spirit, 

(For I will have it from thy very mouth) 
That better he deserved my love than thou. 

Dor. For you he fought and died ; I fought against you : 
Through all the mazes of the bloody field 
Hunted your sacred life ; which that I miss'd 
Was the propitious error of my fate, 
Not of my soul ; my soul's a regicide. 

Seb. Thou might'st have given it a more gentle name : 
Thou mean'st to kill a tyrant, not a king. 
Speak, didst thou not, Alonzo ? 

Dor. Can I speak ? 

Alas, I cannot answer to Alonzo : 
No, Dorax cannot answer to Alonzo : 
Alonzo was too kind a name for me. 
Then, when I fought and conquer' d with your arms, 
In that blest age I was the man you named ; 
Till rage and pride debased me into Dorax ; 
And lost, like Lucifer, my name above. 

Seb. Yet twice this day I owed my life to Dorax. 

Dor. I saved you but to kill you : there's my grief. 



64 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Seb. Nay, if thou canst be grieved, thou canst repent : 
Thou couldst not be a villain, tho' thou would'st : 
Thou own'st too much in owning thou hast erred : 
And I too little, who provoked thy crime. 

Dor. O, stop this headlong torrent of your goodness ! 
It comes too fast upon a feeble soul, 
Half-drown'd in tears before ; spare my confusion, 
For pity spare, and say not first you err'd. 
For yet I have not dar'd, through guilt and shame, 
To throw myself beneath your royal feet. 
Now spurn this rebel, this proud renegade ; 
'Tis just you should, nor will I more complain. 

Seb. Indeed thou shouldst not ask forgiveness first, 
But thou prevent'st me still in all that's noble. 
Here let me ever hold thee in my arms ; 
And all our quarrels be but such as these, 
Who shall love best, and closest shall embrace : 
Be what Henriquez was — be my Alonzo. 

Dor. What, my Alonzo, said you ? my Alonzo ! 
Let my tears thank you, for I cannot speak ; 
And if I could, 
Words were not made to vent such thoughts as mine. 



SECTION XXIII. 

ANTONY VENTIDIUS Ibid. 

Antony. Art thou Ventidius ? 

Ventidius. Are you Antony ? 

I'm liker what I was, than you to him 
When that I left you last. 

Ant. I'm angry. 

Ven. So am I. 

Ant. I would be private : leave me. 

Ven. Sir, I love you, 
And therefore will not leave you. 

Ant. Will not leave me 1 
Where have you learnt that answer ? Who am I ? 

Ven. My emperor : the man 1 love next Heaven. 
If I said more, I think 'twere scarce a sin : 
You're all that's good and noble. 

Ant. All that's wretched. 

You will not leave me, then '! 






THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 65 

Ven. J Tvvas too presuming 

To say I would not : but I dare not leave you ; 
And 'tis unkind in you to chide me hence 
So soon, when I so far have come to see you. 

Ant. Now thou hast seen me, art thou satisfied ? 
For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough ; 
And, if a foe, too much. 

Ven. Look, emperor, this is no common dew, 
[ have not wept these forty years ; but now 
My mother comes afresh into my eyes ; 
I cannot help her softness. 

Ant. Sure there's contagion in the tears of friends ; 
See, I have caught it too. Believe me, 'tis not 
For my own griefs, but thine — nay, father — 

Ven. Emperor ! 

Ant. Emperor ! why that's the style of victory. 
The conqu'ring soldier, red with unfelt wounds, 
Salutes his general so : but never more 
Shall that sound reach my ears. 
I lost a battle. 

Ven. So has Julius done. 

Ant. Thou favour'st me, and speak'st not half thou 
think'st ; 
For Julius fought it out, and lost it fairly : 
But Antony 

Ven. Nay, stop not. 

Ant. Antony — 

(Well, thou wilt have it) — like a coward fled, 
Fled while his soldiers fought ; fled first, Ventidius. 
Thou long'st to curse me, and 1 give thee leave. 
I know thou cam'st prepared to rail. 

Ven. I did. 

Ant. I'll help thee — I have been a man, Ventidius. 

Ven. Yes, and a brave one : but 

Ant. I know thy meaning. 

But I have lost my reason, have disgraced 
The name of soldier, with inglorious ease. 
In the full vintage of my flowing honours 
Sate still, and saw it prest by other hands. 
Fortune came smiling to my youth, and woo'd it, 
And purple greatness met my ripen'd years. 

Ven. You are too sensible already 
Of what you've done, too conscious of your failings ; 
And like a scorpion, whipt by others first 
To fury, sting yourself in mad revenge. 
G 



66 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Ant. Dost thou think me desperate 
Without just cause ? No, when I found all lost 
Beyond repair, I hid me from the world, 
And learnt to scorn it here; which now I do 
So heartily, I think it is not worth 
The cost of keeping. 

Ven. Caesar thinks not so ; 

He'll thank you for the gift he could not take. 
You would be kill'd like Tully, would you? Do 
Hold out your throat to Caesar, and die tamely. 

Ant. No, I can kill myself; and so resolve. 

Ven. I can die with you too, when time shall serve ; 
But fortune calls upon us now to live, 
To fight, to conquer. 

Ant. Sure thou dream'st, Ventidius. 

Ven. No, 'tis you dream ; you sleep away your hours 
In desperate sloth, miscall'd philosophy. 
Up, up, for honour's sake ; twelve legions wait you 
And long to call you Chief. By painful journies 
I led 'em, patient both of heat and hunger, 
Down from the Parthian marches to the Nile. 
'Twill do you good to see their sun-burnt faces, 
Their scarr'd cheeks, and chopt hands ; there's virtue in 'em. 

Ant. Where left you them ? 

Ven. I say, in Lower Syria. 

Ant. Bring 'em hither ; 

There may be life in these. 

Ven. They will not* come. 

Ant. Why didst thou mock my hopes with promised aids, 
To double my despair ? They're mutinous. 

Ven. Most firm and royal. 

Ant. Yet they will not march 

To succour me. O trifler ! 

Ven. They petition 

You would make haste to head 'em. 

Ant. I am besieg'd. 

Ven. There's but one way shut up — how came I hither ? 

Ant. I will not stir. 

Ven. They would perhaps desire 

A better reason. 

Ant. I have never used 

My soldiers to demand a reason of 
My actions. Why did they refuse to march 1 

Ven. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra. 

Ant. What was't they said 1 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 67 

Ven. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra. 
Why should they fight, indeed, to make her conquer, 
And make you more a slave ? 

Ant. You grow presumptuous. 

Ven. I take the privilege of plain love to speak. 

Ant. Plain love ! Plain arrogance, plain insolence! 
Thy men are cowards ; thou an envious traitor ; 
Who, under seeming honesty, hast vented 
The burden of thy rank, overflowing gall. 
O, that thou wert my equal ; great in arms 
As the first Caesar was, that I might kill thee, 
Without stain to my honour S 

Ven. You may kill me. 

You have done more already ; call'd me traitor. 

Ant. Art thou not one ? 

Ven. For showing you yourself, 

Which none else durst have done. But had I been, 
That name, which I disdain to speak again, 
I needed not have sought your abject fortunes, 
Come to partake your fate, to die with you. 
What hindered me t 3 have led my conqu'ring eagles, 
To fill Octavius' bands ? I could have been 
A traitor then — a glorious, happy traitor ; 
And not have been so call'd. 

Ant. Forgive me, soldier ; 

I've been too passionate. 

Ven. You thought me false ; 

Thought my old age betray'd you. Kill me, sir ; 
Pray kill me ; yet you need not — your unkindness 
Has left your sword no work. 

Ant. I did not think so ; 

I said it in my rage : pr'ythee, forgive me. 
Why didst thou tempt my anger, by discovery 
Of what I could not hear ? 

Ven. No prince but you 

Could merit that sincerity I used ; 
Nor durst another man have ventured it. 

Ant. Thou shalt behold me once again in iron ; 
And, at the head of our old troops, that beat 
The Parthians, cry aloud, Come, follow me ! 

Ven. O, now I hear rny emperor ! In that word 
Octavius fell. Methinks you breathe 
Another soul ; your looks are more divine : 
You speak a hero, and you move a god. 



68 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



Ant. O, thou hast fii'd me ! my souPs up in arms, 
And mans each part about me. Once again 
The nobleness of fight has seized me. 
Come on, my soldier ; 

Our hearts and arms are still the same. I long 
Once more to meet our foes ; that thou and I, 
Like Time and Death, marching before our troops, 
May taste fate to 'em ; mow 'em out a passage, 
And, entering where the utmost squadrons yield, 
Begin the noble harvest of the field. 



SECTION XXIV. 

EXTRACT FROM MR. WEBSTER'S SPEECH IN REPLY TO 
MR. HAYNE. 

The eulogium pronounced on the character of the state 
of South Carolina, by the honourable gentleman, for her 
revolutionary and other merits, meets my hearty concur- 
rence. I shall not acknowledge, that the honourable mem- 
ber goes before me in regard for whatever of distinguished 
talent or distinguished character, South Carolina has pro- 
duced. I claim part of the honor, I partake in the pride 
of her great names. I claim them for countrymen, one and 
all. The Laurens, the Rutledges, the Pinckneys, the Sump- 
ters, the Marions — Americans, all — whose fame is no more 
to be hemmed in by state lines, than their talents and pa- 
triotism were capable of being circumscribed within the 
same narrow limits. In their day and generation, they 
served and honoured the country, and the whole country ; 
and their renown is of the treasures of the whole country. 
Him, whose honoured name the gentleman himself bears — 
does he suppose me less capable of gratitude for his patri- 
otism, or sympathy for his sufferings, than if his eyes had 
first opened upon the light in Massachusetts, instead of 
South Carolina ? Sir, does he suppose it is in his power 
to exhibit a Carolina name so bright as to produce envy in 
my bosom ? No, sir ; increased gratification and delight, 
rather. 

Sir, I thank God, that if I am gifted with little of the 
spirit which is said to be able to raise mortals to the skies, 
I have yet none, as I trust, of that other spirit, which would 
drag angels down. When 1 shall be found, sir, in my place 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. b\) 

here, in the Senate, or elsewhere, to sneer at public merit, 
because it happened to spring up beyond the little limits of 
my own state, or neighbourhood : when I refuse, for any 
such cause, or for any cause, the homage due to American 
talent, to elevated patriotism, a sincere devotion to liberty 
and the country ; or if I see an uncommon endowment of 
heaven; if I see extraordinary capacity and virtue in any 
son of the South — and if moved by local prejudice, or 
gangrened by state jealousy, I get up here to abate the 
tithe of a hair from his just character and just fame, may 
my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth ! Sir, let me 
recur to pleasing recollections — let me indulge in refreshing 
remembrance of the past — let me remind you that in early 
times no states cherished greater harmony, both of princi- 
ple and of feeling, than Massachusetts and South Carolina. 
Would to God, that harmony might again return. Shoulder 
to shoulder they went through the revolution — hand in hand 
they stood round the administration of Washington, and 
felt his own great arm lean on them for support. Unkind 
feeling, if it exists, alienation and distrust, are the growth, 
unnatural to such soils, of false principles since sown. They 
are weeds, the seeds of which that same great arm never 
scattered. 

Mr. President, I shall enter on no encomium upon Mas- 
sachusetts — she needs none. There she is — behold her, and 
judge for yourselves. There is her history — the world 
knows it by heart. The past, at least is secure. There is 
Boston, and Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker Hill — 
and there they will remain forever. The bones of her sons, 
fallen in the great struggle for independence, now lie min- 
gled with the soil of every state from New England to 
Georgia; and there they will lie for ever. And, sir, where 
American liberty raised its first voice, and where its youth 
was nurtured and sustained, there it still lives, in the 
strength of its manhood, and full of its original spirit. If 
discord and disunion shall wound it — if party strife and 
blind ambition shall hawk at and tear it — if folly and mad- 
ness — if uneasiness, under salutary and necessary restraint, 
shall succeed to separate it from that Union, by which alone 
its existence is made sure, it will stand, in the end, by the 
side of that cradle in which its infancy was rocked ; it will 
stretch forth its arm with whatever vigour it may still retain, 
over the friends who gather round it ; and it will fall at 
last, if fall it must, amidst the proudest monuments of its 
own glory, and on the very spot of its origin. 
v G 2 



70 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

SECTION XXV. 
procida — raimond Mrs. Hemans. 

Raimond. My father ! — wherefore here ? 

I am prepared to die, yet would 1 not 
Fall by thy hand. 

Procida. 'Twas not for this I came. 

Rai. Then wherefore ? — and upon thy lofty brow 
Why burns the troubled flush ? 

Pro. Perchance 'tis shame. 

Yes ! it may well be shame ! — for I have striven 
With nature's feebleness, and been o'erpower'd. 
— Howe'er it be, 'tis not for thee to gaze, 
Noting it thus. I have prepared 
The means for thy escape. 

Rai. What ! thou ! the austere, 

The inflexible Procida ! hast thou done this, 
Deeming me guilty still ? 

Pro. Upbraid me not. 

It is even so. There have been nobler deeds 
By Roman fathers done, — but I am weak. 
Therefore, again I say, arise ! and haste, 
For the night wanes. Thy fugitive course must be 
To realms beyond the deep ; so let us part 
In silence, and for ever. 

Rai. Let him fly 

Who holds no deep asylum in his breast, 
Wherein to shelter from the scoffs of men ! 
— I can sleep calmly here. 

Prd. Art thou in love 

With death and infamy, that so thy choice 
Is made, lost boy ! when freedom courts thy grasp ? 

Rai. Father ! to set th' irrevocable seal 
Upon that shame wherewith ye have branded me, 
There needs but flight. What should I bear from this, 
My native land 1 — A blighted name, to rise 
And part me, with its dark remembrances, 
For ever from the sunshine ! — O'er my soul 
Bright shadowings of a nobler destiny 
Float in dim beauty through the gloom ; but here, 
On earth, my hopes are closed. 

Pro. Thy hopes are closed ! 

And what were they to mine 1 — Thou wilt not fly ! 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 71 

Why, let all traitors flock to thee, and learn 
How proudly guilt can talk ! — Let fathers rear 
Their offspring henceforth, as the free wild birds 
Foster their young ; when these can mount alone, 
Dissolving nature's bonds — why should it not 
Be so with us ? 

Rai. Now I feel 

What high prerogatives belong to death. 
He hath a deep, though voiceless eloquence, 
To which I leave my cause. " His solemn veil 
Doth with mysterious beauty clothe our virtues, 
And in its vast, oblivious folds, for ever 
Give shelter to our faults. " When I am gone, 
The mists of passion which have dimm'd my name 
Will melt like day-dreams; and my memory then 
Will be — not what it should have been — for I 
Must pass without my fame — but yet, unstained 
As a clear morning dew-drop. Oh ! the grave 
Hath rights inviolate as a sanctuary's, 
And they should be my own ! 

Pro. Now, by just Heaven, 

I will not thus be tortured ! — Were my heart 
But of thy guilt or innocence assured, 
I could be calm again. " But, in this wild 
Suspense, — this conflict and vicissitude 
Of opposite feelings and convictions — What ! 
Hath it been mine to temper and to bend 
All spirits to my purpose ; have I raised 
With a severe and passionless energy, 
From the dread mingling of their elements, 
Storms which have rock'd the earth? — And shall I now 
Thus fluctuate, as a feeble reed, the scorn 
And plaything of the winds ?" — Look on me, boy ! 
Guilt never dared to meet these eyes, and keep 
Its heart's dark secret close. Oh, pitying Heaven ! 
Speak to my soul with some dread oracle, 
And tell me which is truth. 

Rai. I will not plead. 

I will not call th' Omnipotent to attest 
My innocence. No, father, in thy heart 
I know my birthright shall be soon restored ; 
Therefore I look to death, and bid thee speed 
The great absolver. 

Pro. We will not part in wrath ! — the sternest hearts, 
Within their proud and guarded fatnesses, 



72 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Hide something still, round which their tendrils cling 
With a close grasp, unknown to those who dress 
Their love in smiles. And such wert thou to me ! 
The all which taught me that my soul was cast 
In nature's mould. And I must now hold on 
My desolate course alone ! — Why, be it thus ! 
He that doth guide a nation's star, should dwell 
High o'er the clouds in regal solitude, 
Sufficient to himself. 

Rai. Yet, on that summit, 

When with her bright wings glory shadows thee, 
Forget not him who coldly sleeps beneath, 
Yet might have soared as high ! 

Pro. No, fear thou not 1 

Thou'lt be remembered long. The canker-worm 
O' th' heart is ne'er forgotten. 

Rai. "Oh! not thus — 

I would not thus be thought of." 

Pro. Let me deem 

Again that thou art base ! — for thy bright looks, 
Thy glorious mien of fearlessness and truth, 
Then would not haunt me as th' avenging powers 
Followed the parricide. Farewell, farewell ! 
I have no tears. Oh ! thus thy mother looked, 
When, with a sad, yet half-triumphant smile, 
All radiant with deep meaning, from her death-bed 
She gave thee to my arms. 

Rai. Now death has lost 

His sting, since thou believ'st me innocent. 

Pro. Thou innocent ! — Am I thy murderer then ? 
Away ! I tell thee thou hast made my name 
A scorn to men ! — No ! I will not forgive thee ; 
A traitor ! — What ! the blood of Procida 
Filling a traitor's veins ! — Let the earth drink it ; 
Thou wouldst receive our foes !— -but they shall meet 
From thy perfidious lips a welcome, cold 
As death can make it. 

Rai. Yet hear me ! 

Pro. No! thou'rt skill'd to make 

E'en shame look fair. Why should I linger thus ? 

[Going — he turns back for a moment. 
If there be aught — if aught — for which thou need'st 
Forgiveness — not of me, but that dread power 
From whom no heart is veil'd — delay thou not 
Thy prayer : — Time hurries on. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 73 

Red. I am prepared. 

Pro. 'Tis well. [Exit Procida. 

Red. Men talk of torture ! — Can they wreak 

Upon the sensitive and shrinking frame, 
Half the mind bears, and lives ? — My spirit feels 
Bewilder'd ; on its powers this twilight gloom 
Hangs like a weight of earth. It should be morn ; 
Why, then, perchance, a beam of Heaven's bright sun 
Hath pierced, ere now, the grating of my dungeon, 
Telling of hope and mercy ! 



SECTION XXYI. 
acres-— david P. P. Sheridan. 

David. Then, by the mass, sir, I would do no such 
thing ! ne'er a Sir Lucius O'Trigger in the kingdom should 
make me fight, when I wa'n't so minded. Oons ! what 
will the old lady say, when she hears o't? 

Acres. But my honour, David, my honour ! I must be 
very careful of my honour. 

Dav. Ay, by the mass ! and I would be very careful of 
it, and I think in return my honour couldn't do less than to 
be very careful of me. 

Acr. Odds blades! David, no gentleman will ever risk 
the loss of his honour ! 

Dav. I say, then, it would but be civil in honour never to 
risk the loss of a gentleman. Lookye, master, this honour 
seems to me to be a marvellous false friend ; ay, truly, a very 
courtier-like servant. Put the case, I was a gentleman (which, 
I thank my stars, no one can say of me ;) well — my honour 
makes me quarrel with another gentleman of my acquaintance. 
So, we fight. (Pleasant enough that.) Boh ! I kill him ; (the 
more's my luck.) Now, pray, who gets the profit of it? 
Why, my honour. But put the case, that he kills me ! by 
the mass ! 1 go to the worms, and my honour whips over to 
my enemy. 

Acr. No, David, in that case ! odds, crowns and laurels ! 
your honour follows you to the grave ! 

Dav. Now, that's just the place where I could make a 
shift to do without it. 

Acr. Zounds ! David, you are a coward ! It doesn't 
become my valour to listen to you. What, shall 1 disgrace 
my ancestors ? think of that, David ; think what it would 
be to disgrace my ancestors ! 



74 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Dav. Under favour, the surest way of not disgracing 
them is to keep as long as you can out of their company. 
Lookye now, master, to go them in such haste — with an 
ounce of lead in your brains — 1 should think it might as 
well be let alone. Our ancestors are very good kind of 
folks ; but they are the last people I should choose to have 
a visiting acquaintance with. 

Acr. But, David, now, you don't think there is such 
very, very, very great danger, hey ? Odds life ! people 
often fight without any mischief done ! 

Dav. By the mass, I think 'tis ten to one against you. 
Oons ! here to meet some lion-headed fellow, I warrant, 
with his villanous double-barrelled swords and cut-and-thrust 
pistols ! Oh bless us ! it makes me tremble to think o't ; 
those be such desperate bloody-minded weapons ! well, 1 
never could abide them ; from a child I never could fancy 
them ! I suppose there an't been so merciless a beast in 
the world as your loaded pistol ! 

Acr. Zounds ! I wont be afraid ; odds fire and fury ! 
you sha'n't make me afraid. Here is the challenge, and I 
have sent for my dear friend, Jack Absolute, to carry it 
for me. 

Dav. Ay, i' the name of mischief, let him be the mes- 
senger. For my part, I wouldn't lend a hand to it for the 
best horse in your stable. By the mass ! it don't look like 
another letter! it is, as I may say, a designing and mali- 
cious-looking letter ! and I warrant smells of gunpowder, 
like a soldier's pouch ! Oons ! I wouldn't swear it mayn't 
go off! 

Acr. Out, you poltroon ! you ha'n't the valour of a 
grasshopper. 

Dav. Well, I say no more : 'twill be sad news, to be 
sure, at Clod Hall ! but I ha' done. Good bye, master. 

Acr. Get along, you cowardly, dastardly, croaking raven ! 



SECTION XXVII. 

EXTRACT FROM THE NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW, 

Edward Everett. 

We of America have here an advantage over our Eng- 
lish brethren, in that keen enthusiasm which we feel for 
the famous spots and abodes, that are consecrated to both 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 75 

alike, by the great names associated with them. To them 
the constant presence and familiarity of the scene blunt 
the edge of the feelings it excites in us, and Westminster 
Abbey and Stratford on Avon, awaken an enthusiasm in 
an American fancy, which the Englishman smiles at, as a 
sort of provincial rawness. Instead of assenting to those on 
both sides of the water, who have spoken of America as 
unfortunate in the want of ancient associations, as con- 
demned to a kind of matter-of-fact, unpoetical newness of 
national character, we maintain that never nation, since 
the world began, had so rich a treasure of traditional 
glory. Is it nothing to be born, as it were, with the birth- 
right of two native lands ; to sail across the world of waters, 
and be hailed beyond it by the sound of your native tongue ? 
Is it nothing to find in another hemisphere the names, 
the customs, and the dress of your own ; to be able to 
trace your ancestry back, not to the ranks of a semi-bar- 
barous conqueror, or the poor mythology of vagrants and 
fugitives of fabulous days, but to noble, high-minded men 
in an age of glory, than which a brighter never dawned on 
the world 1 Is it nothing to be able, as you set your foot 
on the English soil, and with a heart going back to all the 
proud emotions which bind you at the moment to the happy 
home you have left, to be able still, nevertheless, to ex- 
claim, with more than poetical, with literal natural truth, 

Salve ! magna Parens 
Frugum, Saturnia tellus, magna, virum ! 

If there be any feeling, merely national, which can com- 
pare with this, it should be that which corresponds to it ; 
the complacency, with which it were to be hoped the wise 
and good friends of British glory in England w x ould regard 
this flourishing off-set of their own native stock ; the pride 
with which they should witness the progress of their lan- 
guage, their manners, their laws, and their literature, over 
regions wider than the conquests of Alexander ; and that 
not by a forced and military imposition on a conquered land, 
but by fair and natural inheritance, and still more by vol- 
untary adoption and choice ; the joy, with which they should 
reflect, that not a note is struck at the centre of thought 
and opinion in the British capital, but is heard and propa- 
gated by our presses, to the valley of the Missouri ; and that 
if the day should come in the progress of national decline, 
when England shall be gathered with the empires that have 
been, when her thousand ships shall have disappeared from 



76 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

the ocean, and the mighty chain of her wealth shall be 
broken, with which she has so long bound the European 
world to her chariot-wheels, and mustered the nations, from 
the banks of the Tagus to the banks of the Don, to march 
beneath the banner of her coalitions, that then there will 
be no unworthy descendant to catch her mantle ; and that 
the rich treasure of her institutions and character, instead 
of becoming the unrescued prey of Huns and Vandals, and 
whatever uncouth name of barbarism laid waste of old the 
refinements of the world, will be preserved, upheld, and 
perfected in the western world of promise. 



SECTION XXVIII. 

WALLENSTEIN COUNT TERTSKY S. T. Coleridge. 

Wallenstein. If there were yet a choice ! if yet some 
milder 
Way of escape were possible — I still 
Will choose it, and avoid the last extreme. 

Count. Desir'st thou nothing further ? Such a way 
Lies still before thee. Send this Wrangel off, 
Forget thou thy old hopes, cast far away 
All thy past life ; determine to commence 
A new one. Virtue hath her heroes too, 
As well as Fame and Fortune. To Vienna — 
Hence — to the Emperor — kneel before the throne ; 
Take a full cotTer with thee — say aloud, 
Thou did'st but wish to prove thy fealty ; 
Thy whole intention but to dupe the Swede. 

Wal. For that too 'tis too late. They know too much. 
I should but bear my own head to the block. 

Count. Art thou in earnest? I entreat thee ! Canst thou 
Consent to bear thyself to thy own grave, 
So ignominiously to be dried up ? 
Thy life, that arrogated such an height, 
To end in such a nothing ! To be nothing, 
When one was always nothing, is an evil 
That asks no stretch of patience, a light evil : 
But to become a nothing, having been 

Wal. Show me a way out of this stifling crowd, 
Ye Powers of Aidance ! Show me such a way 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 77 

As / am capable of going. I 

Am no tongue-hero, no fine virtue-prattler ; 

I cannot warm by thinking ; cannot say 

To the good luck that turns her back upon me, 

Magnanimously : " Go ; I need thee not." 

Cease I to work, I am annihilated. 

Dangers nor sacrifices will I shun, 

If so I may avoid the last extreme ; 

But ere I sink down into nothingness, 

Leave off so little, who began so great, 

Ere that the world confuses me with those 

Poor wretches, whom a day creates and crumbles, 

This age and after ages speak my name 

With hate and dread ; and Friedland be redemption 

For each accursed deed ! 

Count. What is there here, then, 

So against nature ? Help me to perceive it ! 
O let not superstition's nightly goblins 
Subdue thy clear bright spirit ! Art thou bid 
To murder ? — with abhorr'd accursed poniard, 
To violate the breasts that nourished thee ? 
That were against our nature, that might aptly 
Make thy flesh shudder, and thy whole heart sicken, 
Yet not a few, and for a meaner object 
Have ventured even this ; ay, and performed it. 
What is there in thy case so black and monstrous X 
Thou art accused of treason — whether with 
Or without justice is not now the question — 
Thou art lost if thou dost not avail thee quickly 
Of the power which thou possessest — Friedland ! Duke ! 
Tell me, where lives that thing so meek and tame, 
That doth not all his living faculties 
Put forth in preservation of his life ! 
What deed so daring, which necessity 
And desperation will not sanctify ? 

Wal. Once was this Ferdinand so gracious to me : 
He loved me ; he esteemed me ; I was placed 
The nearest to his heart. Full many a time 
We, like familiar friends, both at one table 
Have banqueted together. And is't come to this ? 

Count. So faithfully preserv'st thou each small favour, 
And hast no memory for contumelies ? 
Must I remind thee, how at Regenspurg 
This man repaid thy faithful services ? 
All ranks and all conditions in the empire 
H 



78 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Thou hadst wronged, to make him great, — hadst loaded on 

thee, 
On thee, the hate, the curse of the whole world. 
No friend existed for thee in all Germany, 
And why 1 because thou hadst existed only 
For the Emperor. To the Emperor alone 
Clung Friedland in that storm which gathered round him, 
At Regenspurg in the Diet — and he dropped thee ! 
He let thee fall ! He let thee fall a victim 
To the Bavarian, to that insolent ! 
Deposed, stript bare of all thy dignity 
And power, amid the taunting of thy foes, 
Thou wert let drop into obscurity. 
Say not, the restoration of thy honour 
Has made atonement for that first injustice. 
No honest good-will was it that replaced thee, 
The law of hard necessity replaced thee, 
Which they had fain opposed, but that they could not. 

Wal. Not to their good wishes, that is certain, 
Nor yet to his affection I'm indebted 
For this high office ; and if I abuse it, 
I shall therein abuse no confidence. 

Count. Affection ! confidence ! — They needed thee. 
Necessity, impetuous remonstrant! 
Who not with empty names, or shows of proxy, 
Is served, who'll have the thing, and not the symbol, 
Ever seeks out the greatest and the best, 
And at the rudder places him, e'en though 
She had been forced to take him from the rabble — 
She, this necessity, it was that placed thee 
In this high office ; it was she that gave thee 
Thy letters patent of inauguration. 
For, to the uttermost moment that they can, 
This race still help themselves at cheapest rate 
With slavish souls, with puppets ! At the approach 
Of extreme peril, when a hollow image 
Is found a hollow image and no more, 
Then falls the power into the mighty hands 
Of nature, of the spirit giant-born, 
Who listens only to himself, knows nothing 
Of stipulations, duties, reverences, 
And, like the emancipated force of fire, 
Unmastered scorches, ere it reaches them, 
Their fine-spun webs, their artificial policy. 

Wa 'Tis true ! they saw me always as I am — 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



79 



Always ! I did not cheat them in the bargain. 
I never held it worth my pains to hide 
The bold all-grasping habit of my soul. 

Count. Nay rather — thou hast ever shown thyself 
A formidable man, without restraint ; 
Hast exercised the full prerogatives 
Of thy impetuous nature, which had been 
Once granted to thee. Therefore, Duke, not thou, 
Who hast still remained consistent with thyself, 
But they are in the wrong, who fearing thee, 
Intrusted such a power in hands they feared. 
For, by the laws of spirit, in the right 
Is every individual character 
That acts in strict consistence with itself. 
Self-contradiction is the only wrong. 
Wert thou another being, then, when thou 
Eight years ago pursuedst thy march with fire 
And sword, and desolation, through the circles 
Of Germany, the universal scourge, 
Didst mock all ordinances of the empire. 
Then was the time to break thee in, to curb 
Thy haughty will, to teach thee ordinance. 
But no ! the Emperor felt no touch of conscience, 
What served him pleased him, and without a murmur 
He stamped his broad seal on these lawless deeds. 
What at that time was right, because thou didst it 
For him, to-day is all at once become 
Opprobrious, foul, because it is directed 
Against him. O most flimsy superstition ! 

Wed. I never saw it in this light before. 
'Tis even so. The Emperor perpetrated 
Deeds through my arm, deeds most unorderly. 
And even this prince's mantle, which I wear, 
I owe to what were services to him, 
But most high misdemeanours 'gainst the empire. 

Count. Then betwixt thee and him (confess it Friedland ! ) 
The point can be no more of right and duty, 
Only of power and the opportunity, 
That opportunity*, lo ! it comes yonder, 
Approaching with switt steeds ; then with a swing 
Throw thyself up into the chariot seat, 
Seize w r ith firm hand the reins, ere thy opponent 
Anticipate thee, and himself make conquest 
Of the now empty seat. 
The constellations stand victorious o'er thee, 



80 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



The planets shoot good fortune in fair junctions, 

And tell thee, " Now's the time !" The starry courses 

Hast thou thy life-long measured to no purpose 1 

The quadrant and the circle, were they playthings? 

The zodiacs, the rolling orbs of heaven, 

Hast pictured on these walls, and all around thee 

In dumb, foreboding symbols hast thou placed 

These seven presiding Lords of Destiny — 

For toys ? Is all this preparation nothing ? 

Is there no marrow in this hollow art, 

That even to thyself it doth avail 

Nothing, and has no influence over thee 

In the great moment of decision % — — 

Wal. Send Wrangel to me — I will instantly 
Dispatch three couriers. 
It is his evil genius and mine. 
Our evil genius ! It chastises Mm 
Through me, the instrument of his ambition ; 
And I expect no less, than that revenge 
E'en now is whetting for my breast the poniard. 
Who sows the serpent's teeth, let him not hope 
To reap a joyous harvest. Every crime 
Has, in the moment of its perpetration, 
Its own avenging angel — dark misgiving, 
An ominous sinking at the inmost heart. 
He can no longer trust me. Then no longer 
Can I retreat — so come that which must come- 
Still destiny preserves its due relations,, 
The heart within us is its absolute 
Vicegerent. 



SECTION XXIX. 
dr. ollapod — sir charles cropland George Colman* 

Ollapod. Sir Charles, I have the honour to be your 
slave. Hope your health is good. Been a hard winter 
here — Sore throats were pleuty ; so were wood-cocks. 
Flush'd four couple, one morning, in a half-mile walk, from 
our town, to cure Mrs. Quarles of a quinsy. May coming 
on soon, Sir Charles. Hope you come to sojourn. Shouldn't 
be always on the wing — that's being too flighty. Do you 
take , good sir 2 do you take X 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 81 

Sir Charles. Oh, yes,. I take. But, by the cockade in 
your hat, Ollapod, you have added lately, it seems, to your 
avocations. 

Olla. My dear Sir Charles, I have now the honour to 
be cornet in the volunteer association corps of our town. 
It fell out unexpected — pop on a sudden ; like the going 
off of a field-piece, or an alderman in an apoplexy. 

Sir C. Explain. 

Olla. Happening to be at home — rainy day — no going 
out to sport, blister, shoot, nor bleed — was busy behind the 
counter — You know my shop, Sir Charles — Galen's head 
over the door — new gilt him last week, by the by — looks 
as fresh as a pill. 

Sir C. Well, no more on that head now — Proceed. 

Olla. On that head ! That's very Well, very well in- 
deed ! Thank you, good sir, I owe you one — Church- 
warden Posh, of our town, being ill of an indigestion, from 
eating three pounds of measly pork, at a vestry dinner, I 
was making up a cathartic for the patient; when, who 
should strut into the shop, but Lieutenant Grains, the brewer 
— sleek as a dray horse — in a smart scarlet jacket, tastily 
turn'd up with a rhubarb-coloured lapelle. I confess his 
figure struck me. I look'd at him, as I was thumping the 
mortar, and felt instantly inoculated with a military ardour. 

Sir C. Inoculated ! I hope your ardour was of a very 
favourable sort. 

Olla. Ha ! ha ! That's very well — very well, indeed ! — 
Thank you, good sir, I owe you one. We first talk'd of 
shooting — He knew my celebrity that way, Sir Charles. I 
told him, the day before, I had kill'd six brace of birds — I 
thump'd on at the mortar — We then talk'd of physic — I told 
him, the day before, I had kill'd — lost, I mean- — six brace 
of patients — I thump'd on at the mortar — eyeing him all 
the while ; for he look'd mighty flashy, to be sure ; and I 
felt an itching to belong to the corps. The medical, and 
military, both deal in death, you know— so, 'twas natural. 
Do you take, good sir 1 do you take ? 

Sir C. Take ? Oh, nobody can miss. 

Olla. He then talk'd of the corps itself: said it was 
sickly : and if a professional person would administer to 
the health of the association— dose the men, and drench 
the horse — he could, perhaps, procure him a cornetcy. 

Sir C. Well, you jump'd at the offer? 

Olla. Jump'd ! I jump'd over the counter — kick'd down 
Churchwarden Posh's cathartic, into the pocket of Lieuten- 
H 2 



82 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

antGrains's smart scarlet jacket, tastily turn'd up with a 
rhubarb-coloured lapelle ; embraced him and his offer, and 
I am now Cornet Ollapod, apothecary, at the Galen's Head, 
of the association corps of cavalry, at your service. 

Sir C, I wish you joy of your appointment. You may 
now distil water for the shop, from the laurels you gather 
in the field. 

Olla. Water for — Oh ! laurel water. Come, that's 
very well — very well, indeed ! Thank you, good sir, I owe 
you one. Why, I fancy fame will follow, when the poison 
of a small mistake I made has ceased to operate. 

Sir C. A mistake ? 

Olla. Having to attend Lady Kitty Carbuncle on a grand 
field day, I clapped a pint bottle of her ladyship's diet-drink 
into one of my holsters ; intending to proceed to the patient, 
after the exercise was over. I reach'd the martial ground, 
and jallop'd — gallop'd, I mean — wheel'd, and flourish'd, 
with great eddt; but when the word "Fire" was given, 
meaning to pull out my pistol, in a horrible hurry, I pre- 
sented, neck foremost, the villanous diet-drink of Lady 
Kitty Carbuncle ; and the medicine being, unfortunately, 
fermented, by the jolting of my horse, it forced out the 
cork, with a prodigious pop, full in the face of my gallant 
commander. 

Sir C. But, in the midst of so many pursuits, how pro- 
ceeds practice among the ladies ? Any new faces, since I 
left the country ? 

Olla. Nothing worth an item — Nothing new arrived in 
our town. In the village, to be sure, hard by, Miss Emily 
Worthington, a most brilliant beauty has lately given lustre 
to the estate of Farmer Harrowby. 

Sir C. My dear Doctor, the lady of all others I wish 
most to know. Introduce yourself to the family, and pave 
the way for me. Come ! mount your horse — I'll explain 
more as you go to the stable : — but I am in a flame, in a 
fever, till I see you off. 

Olla. In a fever ! I'll send you physic enough to fill a 
baggage waggon. 

Sir C. [Aside.] So ! a long bill as the price of his po- 
liteness ! 

Olla. You need not bleed ; but you must have medicine. 

Sir C. If I must have medicine, Ollapod, I fancy 1 
shall bleed pretty freely. 

Olla. Come, that's very well ! very well indeed ! Thank 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 83 

you, good sir, I owe you one. Before dinner, a strong dose 
of coloquintida, senna, scammony, and gamboge ; — 

Sir C. Oh, confound scammony and gamboge ! 

Olla. At night a narcotic ; next day, saline draughts, 
camphorated julap, and 

Sir C. Zounds ! only go, and I'll swallow your whole 
shop. 

Olla. Galen, forbid ! 'Tis enough to kill every cus- 
tomer I have in the parish ! — Then we'll throw in the bark 
— By the by, talking of bark, Sir Charles, that Juno of 
yours is the prettiest pointer 

Sir C. Well, well, she is yours. 

Olla. My dear Sir Charles ! such sport next shooting 
season ! If 1 had but a double barreled gun- 

Sir C. Take mine that hangs in the hall. 

Olla. My dear Sir Charles ! — Here's a morning's work , 
senna and coloquintida [Aside. 

Sir C. Well, be gone then. [Pushing him. 

Olla. I'm off — Scammony and gamboge. 

Sir C. Nay, fly, man ! 

Olla. I do, Sir Charles — A double-barrell'd gun — I fly 
— the bark — I'm going — Juno — a narcotic 

Sir C. Off with you ! 



SECTION XXX. 

SPEECH OF RAAB KIUPRILI S. T. Coleridge. 

Hear me, 

Assembled lords and warriors of Iliyria, 

Hear, and avenge me ! Twice ten years have I 

Stood in your presence, honoured by the king : 

Beloved and trusted. Is there one among you, 

Accuses Raab Kiuprili of a bribe ? 

Or one false whisper in his sovereign's ear ? 

Who here dares charge me with an orphan's rights 

Outfaced, or widow's plea left undefended? 

And shall I now be branded by a traitor, 

A bought-bribed wretch, who being called my son, 

Doth libel a chaste matron's name, and plant 

Hensbane and aconite on a mother's grave ? 

The underling accomplice of a robber, 

That from a widow and a widow's offspring 



84 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Would steal their heritage ? To God a rebel, 

And to the common father of his country 

A recreant ingrate ! 

What means this clamour ? Are these madmen's voices ? 

Or is some knot of riotous slanderers leagued 

To infamize the name of the king's brother 

With a black falsehood ? unmanly cruelty, 

Ingratitude, and most unnatural treason ? 

What mean these murmurs ? Dare then any here 

Proclaim Prince Emerick a spotted traitor? 

One that has taken from you your sworn faith, 

And given you in return a Judas' bribe, 

Infamy now, oppression in reversion, 

And Heaven's inevitable curse hereafter ? 

Yet bear with me awhile ! Have I for this 

Bled for your safety, conquered for your honour ! 

Was it for this, Illyrians ! that I forded 

Your thaw-swoln torrents, when the shouldering ice 

Fought with the foe, and stained its jagged points 

With gore from wounds, I felt not? Did the blast 

Beat on this body, frost-and-famine-numbed, 

Till my hard flesh distinguished not itself 

From the insensate mail r its fellow-warrior? 

And have I brought home with me victory, 

And with her, hand in hand, firm-footed peace, 

Her countenance twice lighted up with glory, 

As if I had charmed a goddess down from heaven ! 

But these will flee abhorrent from the throne 

Of usurpation ! Have you then thrown off shame, 

And shall not a dear friend, a loyal subject, 

Throw off all fear ? I tell ye, the fair trophies, 

Valiantly wrested from a valiant foe, 

Love's natural offerings to a rightful king, 

Will hang as ill on this usurping traitor, 

This brother-blight, this Emerick, as robes 

Of gold plucked from the images of gods 

Upon a sacrilegious robber's back. 



SECTION XXXI. 

ALVAR ORDONIO Ibid. 

Ordonio. Hail, potent wizard ! in my gayer mood 
I poured forth a libation to old Pluto, 
And as I brimmed the bowl, I thought on thee. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 85 

Thou hast conspired against my life and honour, 
Hast tricked me foully ; yet I hate thee not. 
Why should I hate thee ? this same world of ours, 
'Tis but a pool amid a storm of rain, 
And we the air-bladders that course up and down, 
And joust and tilt in merry tournament ; 
And when one bubble runs foul of another, 
The weaker needs must break. 

Alvar. I see thy heart ! 

There is a frightful glitter in thine eye, 
Which doth betray thee. Inly-tortured man, 
This is the revelry of a drunken anguish, 
Which fain would scoff away the pang of guilt, 
And quell each human feeling. 

Ord. Feeling ! feeling ! 

The death of a man — the breaking of a bubble — 
'Tis true I cannot sob for such misfortunes ; 
* But faintness, cold and hunger — curses on me 
If willingly 1 e'er inflicted them ! 
Come, take the beverage ; this chill place demands it. 

Alv. Yon insect on the wall, 
Which moves this way and that, its hundred limbs, 
Were it a toy of mere mechanic craft, 
It were an infinitely curious thing ! 
But it has life, Ordonio ! life, enjoyment ! 
And by the power of its miraculous will 
Wields all the complex movements of its frame 
Unerringly to pleasurable ends ! 
Saw I that insect on this goblet's brim 
I would remove it with an anxious pity ! 

Ord. What meanest thou ? 

Alv. There's poison in the wine. 

Ord. Thou hast guessed right ; there's poison in the 
wine. 
There's poison in't — which of us two shall drink it ? 
For one of us must die ! 

Alv. Whom dost thou think me ? 

Ord. The accomplice and sworn friend of Isidore. 

Alv. I know him not. 

And yet, methinks, I have heard the name but lately. 

Ord. Good ! good ! that lie ! it hath restored me. 
Now I am thy master ! — Villain ! thou shall drink it, 
Or die a bitterer death. 

Alv. What strange solution 

Hast thou found out to satisfy thy fears 2 



86 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER, 



And drug them to unnatural sleep ? My master ! 

Ord. Thou mountebank ! 

Alv. Mountebank and villain ! 
What then art thou ! For shame, put up thy sword ! 
What boots a weapon in a withered arm ? 
I fix mine eye upon thee, and thou tremblest ! 
I speak, and fear and wonder crush thy rage, 
And turn it to a motionless distraction ! 
Thou blind self-worshipper ! thy pride, thy cunning, 
Thy faith in universal villany, 
Thy shallow sophisms, thy pretended scorn 
For all thy human brethren — out upon them ! 
What have they done for thee ? have they given thee peace? 
Cured thee of starting in thy sleep ? or made 
The darkness pleasant when thou wak'st at midnight ? 
Art happy when alone ? Canst walk by thyself 
With even step and quiet cheerfulness ? 
Yet, yet thou may'st be saved 

Ord. (vacantly repeating the words) Saved ? saved ? 

Alv. One pang ! 

Could I call up one pang of true remorse ! 

Ord. He told me of the babes that prattled to him, 
His fatherless little ones ! Remorse ! Remorse ! 
Where got'st thou that fool's word ? Curse on remorse ! 
Can it give up the dead, or recompact 
A mangled body ? mangled — dashed to atoms ! 
Not all the blessings of an host of angels 
Can blow away a desolate widow's curse ! 
And though thou spill thy heart's blood for atonement, 
It will not weigh against an orphan's tear ! 

Alv. But Alvar 

Or d. Ha! it choaks thee in the throat, 

Even thee ; and yet I pray thee speak it out — 
Still Alvar ! — Alvar ! — -howl it in mine ear ! 
Heap it like coals of fire upon my heart, 
And shoot it hissing through my brain ! 

Alv. Alas ! 

That day when thou didst leap from off the rock 
Into the waves, and grasped thy sinking brother, 
And bore him to the strand ; then, son of Valdez, 
How sweet and musical the name of Alvar ! 
Then, then, Ordonio, he was dear to thee, 
And thou wert dear to him ; Heaven only knows 
How very dear thou wert ! Why did'st thou hate him ! 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



87 



heavens ! how he would fall upon thy neck, 
And weep forgiveness ! 

Ord. Spirit of the dead ! 

Methinks I know thee ! ha ! my brain turns wild 
At its own dreams ! — off — off — fantastic shadow ! 

Ah. I fain would tell thee who I am, but dare not ! 

Ord. Cheat ! villain ! traitor ! whatsoever thou be — 

1 fear thee, man ! 

Ah. Does then this thin disguise impenetrably 
Hide Alvar from thee 1 Toil and painful wounds 
And long imprisonment in unwholesome dungeons, 
Have marred perhaps all trait and lineament 
Of what I was ! But chiefly, chiefly, brother, 
My anguish for thy guilt ! 

Ordonio — Brother ! 
Nay, nay, thou shalt embrace me. 

Ord. Touch me not ! 

Touch not pollution, Alvar ! I will die. 

Ah. We will find means to save your honour. Live, 
Oh live, Ordonio ! for our father's sake ! 
Spare his grey hairs. 

Ord. O horror ! not a thousand years in heaven 
Could recompose this miserable heart, 
Or make it capable of one brief joy ! 
Live ! live ! Why yes. 'Twere well to live with you : 
For is it fit a villain should be proud ? 
Forgive me, Alvar ! — Curse me with forgiveness ! 

Ah. Call back thy soul, Ordonio, and look round thee ! 
Now is the time for greatness. 
In these strange dread events 
Just Heaven instructs us with an awful voice, 
That conscience rules us e'en against our choice. 
Our inward monitress to guide or warn, 
If listened to; but if repelled with scorn, 
At length, as dire remorse, she re-appears : 
Works in our guilty hopes, and selfish fears ! 
Still bids, Remember ! and still cries, Too late ! 
And while she scares us, goads us to our fate. 

SECTION XXXIII. 

southey — porson Walter S. Landor. 

Porson. I suspect, Mr. Southey, you are angry with 
me for the freedom with which I have spoken of your 
poetry and Wordsworth's. 



88 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



Southey. What could have induced you to imagine it, 
Mr. Professor ? You have indeed bent your eyes upon me, 
since we have been together, with somewhat of fierceness 
and defiance. I presume that you fancied me to be a com- 
mentator ; and I am not irritated at a mistake. What 
man ever existed, who spent a more retired, a more inof- 
fensive, a more virtuous life, or who adorned it with nobler 
studies than he ? 

Por. I believe, none ; I have always heard it ; and 
those who attack him with virulence or with levity, are 
men of as little morality as reflection. 

South. Nothing is easier than to mark and number the 
striking parts of an author : it is little more difficult to de- 
monstrate why they are so. These pieces may afterwards 
be summed up and collated. Every man will be capable 
or incapable of it, in proportion as his mind is poetical ; 
few indeed will ever write any thing on the subject worth 
reading ; but they will^acquire strength and practice. The 
critic of the trade will gain a more certain livelihood and 
a more reputable one than before, and little will be spent 
upon his education 

Por. Which however must be entered on in an opposite 
way from the statuary's : the latter begins with dirt and 
ends with marble ; the former begins with marble and ends 
with dirt. 

South. For my own part, I should be well contented 
with that share of reputation which might come meted out 
and delivered to me after the analytical and close com- 
parison you propose. Its accomplishment can hardly be ex- 
pected in an age when every thing must be done quickly. 
To run with oars and sails, was formerly the expression of 
orators for velocity : it would now express slowness. 

Por. You were speaking of the changes among us. 
Dwarfs are in fashion still ; but they are the dwarfs of liter- 
ature. These little zanies are invited to the assemblies 
of the gay world, and admitted to the dinners of the. po- 
litical. Limbs of the law, paralysed and laid up profession- 
ally, enter into association with printers, and take retaining 
fees from some authors, to harangue against others out of 
any brief before them. 

South. And they meet with encouragement and success ! 
We stigmatize any lie but a malignant one, and we repel 
any attack but against fame, virtue, and genius. 

Por. No other country has ever been so abundant in 
speculations as ours ; but it would be incredible if we did 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



89 



not see it, that ten or fifteen men, of the humblest attain- 
ments, gain a livelihood by periodical attacks on its best 
writers. Shew me, if you can, Mr. Southey, a temperate, 
accurate, solid exposition, of any English work whatever, 
in any English review. 

South. Not having at hand so many numbers as it would 
be requisite to turn over, 1 must decline the challenge. 

Por. I have observed the same man extol in private, 
the very book on whose ruin he dined the day before. 

South. His judgment then may be ambiguous, but you 
must not deny him the merit of gratitude. If you blame 
the poor and vicious for abusing the solaces of poverty and 
vice, how much more should you censure those who ad- 
minister to them the means of such indulgence. 

Por. The publications which excite the most bustle 
and biting from these fellows, are always the best, as the 
fruit on which the flies gather is the ripest. Periodical 
critics were never so plentiful as they now are. There is 
hardly a young author who does not make his first attempt 
in some review ; shewing his teeth, hanging by his tail, 
pleased and pleasing by the volubility of his chatter, and 
doing his best to get a penny for his exhibitor and a nut 
for his own pouch, by the facetiousness of the tricks he 
performs upon our heads and shoulders. Even the little 
man who followed you in the Critical Review, poor Robin 
Fellowes, whose pretensions widen every smile his imbecil- 
ity has excited, would, I am persuaded, if Homer were 
living, pat him in a fatherly way upon the cheek, and tell 
him that, by moderating his fire and contracting his pro- 
lixity, the public might ere long expect something from 
him worth reading. 

I had visited a friend in King's Road when Robin en- 
tered, 

Have you seen the Review ? cried he — worse than ever ! 
T am resolved to insert a paragraph in the papers, declaring 
that Iliad no concern in the last number. 

Is it so very bad? said I quietly. 

Infamous ! detestable ! exclaimed he. 

Sit down then . . . nobody will believe you ; was my an- 
swer. 

Since that morning he has discovered that I drink harder 
than usual, that my faculties are wearing fast away, that 
once indeed I had some Gieek in my head, but ... he then 
claps the fore-finger to the side of his nose, turns his eye 
slowly upward, and looks compassionately and calmly. 



90 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



South. Come, Mr. Porson, grant him his merits : no 
critic is better contrived to make any work a monthly one, 
no writer more dexterous in giving a finishing touch. 

Por. Let him take his due and be gone. The plagiary 
has a greater latitude of choice than we ; and if he brings 
home a parsnip or turniptop, when he could as easily have 
pocketed a nectarine or a pine-apple, he must be a block- 
head. And now we are both in better humour, I must 
bring you to a confession that in your friend Wordsworth 
there is occasionally a little trash. 

South. A haunch of venison would be trash to a Brah- 
min, a bottle of burgundy or tokay to the xerif of Mecca. 

Por. I will not be anticipated by you. Trash, I con- 
fess, is no proof that nothing good can lie above it and 
about it. The roughest and least manageable soil sur- 
rounds gold and diamonds. Homer and Dante and Shakes- 
peare and Milton, have each many hundred lines (as we are 
alone I will say some thousands) worth little ; lines without 
force, without feeling, without fancy ; in short, without 
beauty of any kind. 

South. In so wide and untrodden a creation as that of 
Shakespeare, can we wonder or complain that sometimes 
we are bewildered and entangled in the exuberance of fer- 
tility 1 Drybrained men upon the continent, the trifling 
wits of the theatre, accurate however, and expert calcula- 
tors, tell us that his beauties are balanced by his faults. 
The poetical opposition, the liberal whig wiseacres, puffing 
for popularity, cry cheerily against them, his faults are 
balanced by his beauties. In reality, all the faults that ever 
were committed in poetry would be but as air to earth, if 
we could weigh them against one single thought or image, 
such as almost every scene exhibits, in every drama of this 
unrivalled genius. 

Por. It will be recorded to the infamy of the kings 
and princes now reigning, or rather of those whose feet 
put into motion their rocking-horses, that they never have 
made a common cause in behalf of learning, but on the 
contrary have made a common cause against it. They 
pretend that it is not their business or their duty to inter- 
fere in the internal affairs of other nations. This is not 
an internal affair of any : it interests all ; it belongs to all ; 
and these scrupulous men have no scruple to interfere in 
giving their countenance and assistance, when a province 
is to be torn away or a people to be invaded. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



91 



South. To neglect what is recoverable in the authors of 
antiquity, is like rowing away from a crew that is milking 
its escape from shipwreck. The knowledge of books 
written in our language is extending daily in our country, 
which, whatever dissatisfaction or disgust its rulers may 
occasion in you, contains bur-fifths of the learned and 
scientific men now on earth. 

Par. Do not attempt to defend the idle and inconsid- 
erate knaves who manage our affairs for us ; or defend 
them on some other ground : prove, if you please, that they 
have, one after another, been incessantly occupied in ren- 
dering us more moral, more prosperous, more free ; but 
abstain, sir, from any allusion to their solicitude on the 
improvement of our literary condition. With a smaller 
sum than is annually expended on the appointment of some 
silly and impertinent young envoy, we might restore all, 
or nearly all, those writers of immortal name, whose dis- 
appearance has been the regret of genius for four entire 
centuries. In my opinion a iew thousand pounds, laid 
out on such an undertaking, would be laid out as credit- 
ably as on a Persian carpet or a Turkish tent ; as creditably 
as on a collar of rubies and a ball-dress of Brussels-lace 
for our Lady in the manger, or as on gilding, for the 
adoration of princesses and their capuchins. 



SECTION XXXIII. 

octavio — maximin & T. Coleridge. 

Maximin. If thou hast believed that I shall act 

A part of this thy play 

Thou hast miscalculated on me grievously. 

My way must be straight on. True with the tongue, 

False with the heart — I may not, cannot be ; 

Nor can ! suffer that a man should trust me — 

As his friend trust me — and then lull my conscience 

With such low pleas as these : — " I asked him not — 

He did it all at his own hazard — and 

My mouth has never lied to him." — No, no ! 

What a friend takes me for, that I must be. 

— I'll to the Duke ; ere yet this day is ended 

Will I demand of him that he do save 

His good name from the world, and with one stride 

Break through and rend this fine-spun web of yours. 



99 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

He can, he will ! — /still am his believer. 

Yet I'll not pledge myself, but that those letters 

May furnish you, perchance, with proofs against him, 

How far may not this Tertsky have proceeded — 

What may not he himself too have permitted 

Himself to do, to snare the enemy, 

The laws of war excusing ? Nothing, save 

His own mouth shall convict him — nothing less I 

And face to face will I go question him. 

Octavio. Thou wilt? 

Max. I will, as sure as this heart beats. 

Ocia. 1 have, indeed, miscalculated on thee. 
I calculated on a prudent son, 
Who would have blest the hand beneficent 
That plucked him back from the abyss — and lo I 
A fascinated being I discover, 
Whom his two eyes befool, whom passion wilders,. 
Whom not the broadest light of noon can heal. 
Go, question him ! — Be mad enough, I pray thee. 
The purpose of thy father, of thy emperor, 
Go, give it up free booty ! — Force me, drive me 
To an open breach before the time. And now,. 
Now that a miracle of heaven had guarded 
My secret purpose even to this hour, 
And laid to sleep suspicion's piercing eyes r 
Let me have lived to see that mine own son, 
With frantic enterprise, annihilates 
My toilsome labours and state-policy. 

Max. Aye — this state-policy ? O how I curse it? 
You will some time with your state-policy, 
Compel him to the measure ; it may happen, 
Because ye are determined that he is guilty. 
Guilty ye r ll make him. All retreat cut off, 
You close up every outlet,, hem him in 
Narrower and narrower, till at length ye force him — 
Yes, ye, — ye force him, in his desperation, 
To set fire to his prison. Father ! Father ! 
That never can end well — it cannot — will not ! 
And let it be decided as it may, 
I see with boding heart the near approach 
Of an ill-starred, unblest catastrophe. 
For this great monarch-spirit, if he fall, 
Will drag a world into the ruin with him. 
And as a ship (that midway on the ocean 
Takes fire) at once, and with a thunder-burst 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 93 

Explodes, and with itself shoots out its crew 
In smoke and ruin betwixt sea and heaven ; 
So will he, falling, draw down in his fall 
All us, who're fixed and mortised to his fortune. 
Deem of it what thou wilt ; but pardon me, 
That I must bear me on in my own way. 
All must remain pure betwixt him and me ; 
And ere the day-light dawns, it must be known 
Which I must lose — my father, or my friend. 



SECTION XXXIV. 

EXTRACT FROM MR. CANNING^ SPEECH ON THE WAR 
WITH FRANCE. 

So much, sir, as to the particular argument, that the past 
conduct of our former allies ought to lead us to withhold all 
credit from their future professions. There is, however, an- 
other and more general argument, comprehending alike 
these and the other powers of Europe ; which, but that it has 
been stated by the honourable gentleman, I should really 
have thought scarcely worthy confutation. We, it seems, 
a wise, prudent, reflecting people — are much struck with 
all the outrages France has committed upon the continent ; 
but on the powers of the continent itself, no lasting im- 
pression has been made. Is this probable? Is it possible? 
Is it in the nature of things, that the contemplation of the 
wrongs and the miseries which others have endured, should 
have worked a deeper impression upon our minds, than the 
suffering of those miseries and wrongs has left on the minds 
of those upon whom they were actually inflicted ? 

" Segnius irritant animos demissa per aures, 
Quam quae sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus ?" 

Yet the echo and report of the blows by which other coun- 
tries have fallen, are supposed to have more effect upon us, 
than the blows themselves produced upon the miserable 
victims who sunk beneath them. 

The pillage and bloody devastation of Italy strike us with 

horror ; — but Italy, we are to believe, is contented with 

what has befallen her. The insults which are hurled by the 

French garrison from the walls of the citadel of Turin, rouse 

I 2 



94 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

resentment in our breasts ; but have no effect on the feelings 
of the Piedmontese. We read with indignation of the 
flag of Bernadotte displayed in mockery and insult to the 
emperor and his subjects ; but it flaunted in the eyes of 
the people of Vienna, without exciting any emotions of 
hatred or resentment. The invasion of a province of a 
friendly power, with whom they had no cause nor pretence 
for hostility, has created in us a decided detestation for the 
unprincipled hypocrisy and ambition of the Directory ; but 
the Ottoman Porte sits down contented with the loss of 
Egypt ; feels no injury, and desires neither reparation nor 
revenge. And then, sir, the wrongs of Switzerland I 
They, too, are calculated to excite an interest here ; but 
the Swiss, no doubt, endured them with quiet resignation, 
and contented humility. If, after the taking of Soleure, 
the venerable magistrates of that place were first handed 
round the town in barbarous triumph, and afterwards, con- 
trary to all the laws of war, of nations, and nature, were 
inhumanly put to death ; if, when the unoffending town of 
Sion capitulated to the French, the troops were let loose to 
revel in every species of licentiousness and cruelty; — if, 
the women, after having been brutally violated, were thrown 
alive into the flames ; if more recently, when Stanz was 
carried, after a short, but vigorous and honourable resis- 
tance, such as would have conciliated the esteem of any 
but a French conqueror, the whole town was burnt to the 
ground, and the ashes quenched with the blood of the in- 
habitants ;— the bare recital of these horrors and atrocities 
awakens in British bosoms, I trust it does awaken, I trust it 
will long keep alive, an abhorrence of the nation and name 
of that people by whom such execrable cruelties have been 
practised, and such terrible calamities inflicted ; but on the 
Swiss (we are to understand) these cruelties have left no 
lasting impression ; the inhabitants of Soleure, who fol- 
lowed with tears of anguish and indignation, their vener- 
ated magistrates to a death of terror and ignominy ; the 
husbands, and fathers, and sons of those wretched victims 
who expired in torture and in shame, beneath the brutality 
of a savage soldiery at Sion : the wretched survivors of 
those who perished in the ruins of the country at Stantz, 
they all felt but a transient pang; their tears by this time 
are dried ; their rage is hushed ; their resentment silenced : 
there is nothing in their feelings which can be stimulated 
into honourable and effectual action ; there is no motive 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 95 

for their exertions, upon which we can safely and perma- 
nently rely ! Sir, I should be ashamed to waste your 
time by arguing such a question. 



SECTION XXXV. 

EXTRACT FROM MR. CANNING^ SPEECH ON THE CATHOLTC 
QUESTION. 

I feel, sir, that many apologies are due to the House, 
for thus trespassing on their patience in vindication of my 
character and motives from imputations, of which, if T 
know anything of my nature, I have some right to complain. 
But to be taunted with want of feeling for the Catholics — 
to be accused of compromising their interests, conscious as 
I am — as 1 cannot but be — of being entitled to their grat- 
itude for a long course of services, and for the sacrifices to 
their cause of interests of my own — this is a sort of treat- 
ment, which would rouse even tameness itself to assert its 
honour, and vindicate its claims. 

I have shown that in the year 1812, 1 refused office rather 
than enter into an administration pledged against the Cath- 
olic question. I did this at a time when office would have 
been dearer to me than at any other period of my political 
life ; when I would have given ten years of life for two 
years of office ; not for any sordid or selfish purpose of 
personal aggrandizement, but for far other and higher views. 
But is this the only sacrifice which I have made to the 
Catholic cause ? The House will perhaps bear with me a 
little longer, (as it has already borne with me so long,) 
while I answer this question by another fact. 

From the earliest dawn of my public life — aye, from the 
first visions of youthful ambition — that ambition had been 
directed to one object above all others. Before that object 
all others vanished into comparative insignificance ; it was 
desirable to me beyond all the blandishments of power, be- 
yond all the rewards and favours of the crown. That ob- 
ject was to represent in this House, the university in which 
I was educated. I had a fair chance of accomplishing this 
object, when the Catholic question crossed my way. 1 
was warned, fairly and kindly warned, that my adoption of 
that course would blast my prospect. I adhered to the 
Catholic cause, and forfeited all my long cherished hopes 



96 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

and expectations. And yet I am told that I have made no 
sacrifice — that I have postponed the cause of the Catholics 
to views and interests of my own. Sir, the representation 
of the university has fallen into worthier hands. I re- 
joice with my right honourable friend near me, in the 
high honour which he has obtained. Long may he enjoy 
the distinction, and long may it prove a source of reciprocal 
pride, to our parent university and to himself. Never till 
this hour have I stated, either in public or in private, the 
extent of this irretrievable sacrifice ; but I have not felt it 
the less deeply. It is past, and I shall speak of it no more. 
The honourable gentleman who opened the debate on 
the other side of the House, on the first day of this length- 
ened discussion, was pleased to ask me in terms of great 
civility and kindness, whether I do not love popularity ? 
Sir, 1 am not insensible to the good opinion of honourable 
men, such as him who put to me this question. I am not 
insensible to the good will of an enlightened community. 
The man who disregards it, is not worthy to hold a high 
official station in a country which boasts a popular consti- 
tution. I have encountered too many of the vicissitudes of 
public life, not to know how to meet censures which I am 
conscious I do not deserve. On the other hand, I desire to 
retain popularity ; but I would hold it honourably, or not 
at all. " Laudo manentem ;" or, to use the more beautiful 
paraphrase of Dryden : — 

" I can applaud her — when she's kind ; — 
But when she dances in the wind, 
And shakes her wings, and will not stay, — 
I puff the prostitute away." 

Yes, sir, I love, I covet, I enjoy popularity ; but I will not 
court it by the surrender of my conscientious judgment, or 
by the sacrifice of my settled opinions. 



SECTION XXXVI. 

richard i. — abbot of boxley Walter S. Landor. 

Abbot, O my king! my king! the champion of our 
faith at the mercy of a prince unworthy to hold his stirrup ! 
the conqueror of Palestine led forth on foot ! a captive ! and 
to those he commanded and protected ! Could Saladin see 
this. . . 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 97 

Richard, The only prince in the universe, who would 
draw his sword for me against the ruffian of Austria. He 
alone is worthy to rescue me, who hath proved himself 
worthy to fight me. 

I might have foreseen this insult. What sentiment of 
magnanimity, honour, of humanity, ever warmed an Aus- 
trian bosom ? 

Tell me, declare to me, Abbot, speak it out at once . . . 
is this the worst of my misfortunes ! Groans burst from 
me ; they cleave my heart ; my own English, I hear, have 
forsaken me ; my brother John is preferred to me ... I am 
lost indeed. What nation hath ever witnessed such a suc- 
cession of brave monarchs, for two hundred years, as have 
reigned uninterruptedly in England? Example formed 
them, danger nurtured them, difficulty instructed them, 
peace and war, in an equal degree, were the supporters of 
their throne. If John succeed to me, which he never can 
by virtue, never shall by force, and I pray to God never 
may by fortune, what will remain to our country but the 
bitter recollection of her extinguished glory ? I would not 
be regretted at so high a price. I would be better than 
the gone, presumptuous as is the hope ; but may the com- 
ing be better than I ! Abbot, 1 have given away thrones, 
but never shall they be torn from me ; rather than this, a 
king of England shall bend before an emperor of Germany, 
but shall bend as an oak before the passing wind, only to, 
rise up again in all his majesty and strength. 

Abbot. Abandoning a king like Richard, we abandon 
our fathers and children, our inheritance and name. Far 
from us be forever such ignominy ! May the day when 
we become the second people upon earth, be the day of our 
utter extirpation ! 

Rich. I am yet king, and more than ever so, who in 
this condition rule over hearts like thine. 

Genii and angels move and repose on clouds ; the same 
do monarchs, but on less compact ones, and hardly firm 
enough for a dream to pillow on. Visions of reluctant 
homage from crowned heads, and of enthusiastic love from 
those who keep them so, have passed away from me, and 
leave no vacancy. One thought commemorative of my 
country, and characteristic of my countrymen, is worth 
them all. 

Abbot. Here are hardly, I reckon, more than three- 
score men ; and considering the character both of their 
prince and of their race, I cannot but believe that the scrip 



98 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

across my saddlebow contains a full receipt for the discharge 
of my sovereign. Certain I am that little is left unto him of 
the prize he made from the caravan of Egypt. 

Rich. The gold and silver were distributed among my 
soldiers, for the only prizes worthy of me were Saladin and 
Jerusalem. The Christian princes judged of me from their 
own worthlessness : Saladin judged of me from himself. 
Look now toward the Holy Alliance. Philip swore upon 
the Evangelists to abstain from aggression in my absence. 
Collecting an army on the borders of Normandy, he pro- 
tests that his measures are pacific, invokes heaven against 
usurpers, and invades the province. He would persuade 
me, no doubt, that a regiment of horse on the low grounds 
is a preventive of agues, and a body of archers on the hills 
a specific for a fever. Aye, Abbot, and his bishops lead 
him forth and light him on : his nobility follows him with 
alacrity and applause. In the whole extent of France there 
is neither sword nor crozier unsullied by perjury. Where 
upon earth was there ever a people so ready to swear and 
to forswear, to fight and to fly ? Equally enthusiastic in 
opposite causes, and embracing them without breathing be- 
twixt, their enthusiasm is however always in proportion to 
their numbers. A Frenchman, like a herring, loses his 
course, when he loses his company, and his very instinct 
(in truth he has little else) forsakes him. The bravest kings 
with him are those who cast down conscience the most 
readily, and those whose appetites are the most groveling 
are the best. 

Abbot. Alas, my liege, society is froth above and dregs 
below, and we have hard work to keep the middle of it 
sweet and sound, to communicate right reason and to pre- 
serve right feelings. In voyages you may see too much, 
and learn too little. The winds and the waves throw 
about you their mutability and their turbulence. When 
we lose sight of home, we lose something else than that which 
school-boys weep for. 

Rich. By the keenness of your eye, compassionate as it 
is, I discover, my good Abbot, that you have watched and 
traced me from the beginning of my wanderings. Let me 
now tell my story. I sailed along the realms of my family ; 
on the right was England, on the left was France; little 
else could I discover than steril eminences and extensive 
shoals. They fled behind me : so pass away generations ; 
so shift, and sink, and die away affections. In the wide 
ocean I was little of a monarch ; old men guided me, boys 
instructed me ; these taught me the names of my towns 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 99 

and harbours, those shewed me the extent of my domin- 
ions : one cloud that dissolved in one hour half covered 
them. 

I debark in Sicily. I place my hand upon the throne of 
Tancred, and fix it. I sail again, and within a day or two 
I behold, as the sun is setting, the solitary majesty of Crete, 
mother of a religion, it is said, that lived two thousand 
years. Onward, and many bright specks bubble up along 
the blue Egean ; islands, every one of which, if the songs 
and stories of the pilots are true, is the monument of a 
greater man than I am. I leave them afar off. . . and for 
whom ? O Abbot, to join creatures of less import than the 
sea-mews on their cliffs ; men praying to be heard, and 
fearing to be understood, ambitious of another's power in 
the midst of penitence, avaricious of another's wealth under 
vows of poverty, and jealous of another's glory in the ser- 
vice of their God. Is this Christianity ? and is Saladin to 
be blamed if he despises it ? 

Abbot. We have only to consider now what lies before 
us. Could not my liege have treated with the duke of 
Austria ? 

Rich. Yes, had he been more nearly my equal. I pun- 
ished his neglect of discipline : it became in his power to 
indulge his revenge. He spoke wisely who said, There 
is no confidence in princes ; and he will speak not unwise- 
ly, who shall say, There is none for them. 



SECTION XXXVII. 

MR. OLDBUCK LOVEL EDIE OCHILTREE. 

Sir Walter Scott. 

Oldbuck. Here, Mr. Lovel, is a truly remarkable spot. 

Lovel. It commands a fine view. 

Old. True ; but it is not for the prospect I brought you 
hither ; do you see nothing else remarkable ? — nothing on 
the surface of the ground ? 

Lov. Why, yes ; [ do see something like a ditch indis- 
tinctly marked. 

Old. Indistinctly ! — pardon me, sir, but the indistinct- 
ness must be in your powers of vision — nothing can be more 
plainly traced — a proper agger or vallum, with its corres- 
ponding ditch or fossa. Indistinctly ! why, bless you, the 



100 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER 

lassie, my niece, as lightheaded a goose as womankind af- 
fords, saw the traces of the ditch at once. Indistinct ! 
why, you must suppose that fools, boors, and idiots have 
ploughed up the land, and, like beasts and ignorant sav- 
ages, have, thereby, obliterated two sides of the square, and 
greatly injured the third ; but ye see, yourself, the fourth 
side is quite entire ! 

Lov. Pardon my inexperienced eyes, Mr. Oldbuck, I 
now perceive it more clearly. 

Old. My dear sir, your eyes are not inexperienced ; you 
know a ditch from level ground, I presume, when you see 
them ? Indistinct ! why, the very common people, the 
very least boy that can herd a cow, calls it the Kaim of 
Kinprunes, and, if that does not imply an ancient camp, I 
am ignorant what does. You must know, our Scottish anti- 
quaries have been greatly divided about the local situation 
of the final conflict between Agricola and the Caledonians. 
Now, after all this discussion, what would you think, Mr. 
Lovel i I say, what would you think— if the memorable 
scene of conflict should happen to be on this very spot 
called the Kaim of Kinprunes, the property of the obscure 
and humble individual who now speaks to you ? Yes, my 
good friend, I am indeed greatly deceived, if this place 
does not correspond with all the marks of that celebrated 
place of action. It was near to the Grampian mountains — 
lo ! yonder they are, mixing and contending with the sky 
on the skirts of the horizon ! — it was in conspectu classis — 
in sight of the Roman fleet ; and would any admiral, Ro- 
man or British, wish a fairer bay to ride in, than that on 
your right hand 1 I was unwilling to say a word about it 
till I had secured the ground ; for it belonged to auld John- 
nie Howie, a bonnet-laird here hard by, and many a com- 
muning we had before he and I could agree. At length — 
I am almost ashamed to say it — but. I even brought my 
mind to give acre for acre of my good corn land for this 
barren spot. But then it was a national concern ; and 
when the scene of so celebrated an event became my own, 
I was overpaid. Whose patriotism would not grow warmer, 
as old Johnson says, on the plains of Marathon r I began 
to trench the ground, to see what might be discovered ; 
and the third day, sir, we found a stone, which I have trans- 
ported to Monkbarns, in order to have the sculpture taken 
off with plaster of Paris ; it bears a sacrificing vessel, and 
the letters A. D. L. L., which may stand, without much 
violence, for Agricola Dicavit Libens Lubens. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 101 

Lov. Certainly, sir; for the Dutch antiquaries claim 
Caligula as the founder of a light-house, on the sole author- 
ity of the letters C. C. P. F., which they interpret Caius 
Caligula Pharum Fecit." 

Old. True, and it has ever been recorded as a sound 
exposition. I see we shall make something of you, even 
before you wear spectacles, notwithstanding you thought 
the traces of this beautiful camp indistinct when you first 
observed them. 

Lov. In time, sir, and by good instruction — 

Old. — You will become more apt. I doubt it not. 
Now, my good friend, I appeal to the people's eyesight — is 
not here the Decumen gate 1 and there, but for the ravage 
of the horrid plough, as a learned friend calls it, would be 
the Praetorian gate. On the left hand you may see some 
slight vestiges of the porta sinistra, and, on the right, 
one side of the porta dextra well nigh entire — Here, then, 
let us take our stand, on this tumulus, exhibiting the foun- 
dation of ruined buildings — the central point — the Prato- 
rium, doubtless, of the camp. 

-See, then, Lovel — see- 



See that huge battle moving from the mountains, 
Their gilt coats shine like dragon scales ; — their march, 
Like a rough tumbling storm — See them, and view them, 
And then see Rome no more ! 

Yes, my dear friend, from this stand it is probable — nay, it 
is nearly certain, that Julius Agricola beheld what our 
Beaumont thus so admirably described ! — From this very 

Praetorium 

[Enter Edie Ochiltree from behind.] 

Edie. Praetorian here, Praetorian there, I mind the big- 
ging o't. 

Old. What is that you say, Edie? What were you 
speaking about ? 

Edie. About this bit bourock, your honour ; I mind the 
bigging o't. 

Old. You do ! Why, you old fool, it was here before you 
were born, and will be after you are hanged, man ! 

E&e. Hanged or drowned, here or awa, dead or alive, 
I mind the bigging o't. 

Old. You — you — you strolling vagabond, what do you 
know about it ? 

K 



102 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Edie. Why, 1 ken this anent it, Monkbarns, and what 
profit have 1 for telling ye a- lie — 1 just ken this about it, 
that about twenty years syne, I, and a whin hallenshakers 
like myself, and the mason-lads that built the lang dyke 
that gaes down the loaning, and twa or three herds maybe, 
just set to wark, and built this bit thing here that ye ca' the 
— the — Praetorian, and a 5 just for a bield at auld Aiken 
Drum's bridal. Mair by token, Monkbarns; if ye howk 
up the bourock, as ye seem to have begun, ye'll find, if ye 
have not found it already, a stane that ane o' the mason 
callants cut a ladle on to have a bourd at the bridegroom, 
and he put four letters on't, that's A. D. L. L. — Aiken 
Drum's Lang Ladle — for Aiken was ane o' the kalesuppers 
o' Fife. 

Lov. [Aside.] This is a famous counterpart to the story 
of Keip on this syde. 

Old. There is some mistake about this. 

Edie. De'il a bit on my side o' the wa' ; 1 never deal 
in mistakes, they aye bring mischances. Now, Monkbarns, 
that young gentleman, that's wi' your honour, thinks little 
of a carle like me, and yet, I'll wager, I'll tell him whar he 
was yestreen at the gloamin, only he maybe wadna like to 
hae't spoken o' in company. 

Old. Never mind the old rogue ; don't suppose I think 
the worse of you for your profession ; they are only preju- 
diced fools and coxcombs that do so. You remember what 
old Tully says in his oration, pro Archia poeta, concerning 
one of your confraternity — Quis nostrum tarn animo agresti 
ac duro fuit-ut-nt — I forget the Latin — the meaning is, 
which of us was so rude and barbarous as to remain un- 
moved at the death of the great Roscius, whose advanced 
age was so far from preparing us for his death, that we 
rather hoped one so graceful, so excellent in his art, ought 
to be exempted from the common lot of mortality. So the 
prince of orators spoke of the stage and its professors. 

Edie. [to Love!.] Never mind me, sir — I am no tale- 
pyet ; but there are mair een in the world than mine, [to 
Oldbuck.] 1 am awa' to the manse, your honour. Has your 
honour ony word there, or to Sir Arthur, for I'll come in 
by Knockwinnock castle again e'en ? 

Old. Go down, go down to Monkbarns— let them give 
you some dinner — or stay ; if you do go to the manse, or to 
Knockwinnock, ye need say nothing about that foolish story 
of yours. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 103 

Edie. Who, I ? — Bless your honour, naebody sail ken 
a word about it frae me, mair than if the bit bourock had 
been there since Noah's flood. But, they tell me your 
honour has gien Johnnie Howie acre for acre of the laigh 
crofts for this heathery knowe ! Now, if he has really im- 
posed the bourock on ye for an ancient wark, it's may real 
opinion the bargain will never haud gude, if you would just 
bring down your heart to try it at the law, and say that he 
beguiled ye. 

Old. [Aside.] Provoking scoundrel ! Never mind, Edie, 
it's all a mistake. 

Edie. Troth, I am thinking sae ; troth, I aye thought 
sae ; and it's no sae lang since I said to Luckie Gemmels, 
" Never think you, Luckie," said I, " that his honour, 
Monkbarns, would hae done sic a daft-like thing, as to gie 
grund weel worth fifty shillings an acre, for a mailing that 
would be dear o' a pund Scots. Na, na," quo' I, " depend 
upon't the laird's been imposed upon wi' that wily do-little 
fellow, Johnnie Howie." " But, sir, how can that be," quo' 
she again, " when the laird's sae book learned, there's no 
the like o' him in the country side, and Johnnie Howie has 
hardly sense aneugh to ca' the cows out o' his kale-yard ?" 
u Aweel, aweel," quo' I, " but ye41 hear he's circumvented 
him with some of his auld warld stories," — for ye ken, 
laird, yon other time about the bodle, that ye thought was 
an auld coin 

Old. Away with you down to Monkbarns, and when 1 
eome back, PH send ye a bottle of ale to the kitchen. 

Edie. But did your honour ever get back the siller ye 
gave to the travelling packman for the bodle 1 

Old. Hang thee 1 go about thy business. 

Edie. Aweel, aweel, sir, blessings on your honour ! I 
hope ye'll ding Johnnie Howie yet, and that I'll live to see 
it. [Exit. 

Lov. Who is this familiar old gentleman ? 

Old. O, one of the plagues of the country. I have been 
always against poor's rates and a workhouse — I think Til 
vote for them now, to have that scoundrel shut up. Who 
is he ! — why, he has been a soldier, ballad-singer, travelling 
tinker, and is now a beggar. He is spoiled by our foolish 
gentry, who laugh at his jokes, and rehearse Edie Ochil- 
tree's good things as regularly as Joe Miller's. 

Lov. He uses freedom apparently, which is the soul of wit. 

Old. O ay, freedom enough ; he generally invents some 
improbable lie or another to provoke you, like that nonsense 



104 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



he talked just now — not that I'll publish my tract till I 
have examined the thing to the bottom. 

Lov. In England, such a mendicant would get a speedy 
check. 

Old. Yes, your churchwardens and dogwhips would 
make slender allowance for his vein of humour. But here, 
hang him, he is a sort of privileged nuisance — one of the 
last specimens of the old-fashioned Scottish mendicant, who 
kept his rounds within a particular district, and was the 
news-carrier, the minstrel, and sometimes the historian of 
the parish. That rascal, now, knows more old ballads and 
traditions than any other man in this and the four next par- 
ishes. And after all, the dog has some good humour. He 
has borne his hard fate with unbroken spirits, and it's cruel 
to deny him the comfort of a laugh at his betters. The 
pleasure of having quizzed me, as you gay folk would call 
it, will be meat and drink to him for a day or two. But I 
must go back and look after him, or he will spread his non- 
sensical story over half the country. 



SECTION XXXVIII. 

EXTRACT FROM RIENZI MlSS Mltfovd. 

Riezi. And darest talk thou to me of brothers ? Thou, 
Whose groom — wouldst have me break my own just laws, 
To save thy brother 1 thine ! Hast thou forgotten 
When that most beautiful and blameless boy, 
The prettiest piece of innocence that ever 
Breath'd in this sinful world, lay at thy feet, 
Slain by thy pampered minion, and I knelt 
Before thee for redress, whilst thou — didst never 
Hear talk of retribution ! This is justice, 
Pure justice, not revenge ! Mark well, my lords — 
Pure equal justice. Martin Ursini 
Had open trial, is guilty, is condemned. 
And he shall die ! Lords, 
If ye could range before me all the peers, 
Prelates, and potentates of Christendom — 
The holy pontiff kneeling at my knee, 
And emperors crouching at my feet, to sue 
For this great robber, still I should be blind 
As justice. But this very day a wife 3 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 105 

One infant hanging at her breast, and two 
Scarce bigger, first born twins of misery, 
Clinging to the poor rags that scarcely hid 
Her squalid form, grasped at my bridle-rein 
To beg her husband's life ; condemned to die 
For some vile petty theft, some paltry scudi — 
And, whilst the fiery war horse chaf d and reared, 
Shaking his crest, and plunging to get free, 
There, midst the dangerous coil unmov'd, she stood, 
Pleading in broken words and piercing shrieks, 
And hoarse low shivering sobs, the very cry 
Of nature ! And, when I at last said no — 
For 1 said no to her — she flung herself 
And those poor innocent babes between the stones 
And my hot Arab's hoofs. We sav'd them all — 
Thank heaven, we saved them all ! but I said no 
To that sad woman, midst her shrieks. Ye dare not 
Ask me for mercy now. 



SECTION XXXIX. 

OLIVER CROMWELL WALTER NOBLE Walter S. Landor. 

Cromwell What brings thee back from Staffordshire, 
friend Walter ? 

Noble. 1 hope, General Cromwell, to persuade you that 
the death of Charles will be considered by all Europe as a 
most atrocious action. 

Crom. Thou hast already persuaded me : what then ? 

Nob. Surely then you will prevent it, for your authority 
is great. Even those who upon their consciences found 
him guilty, would remit the penalty of blood, some from 
policy, some from mercy. 

Crom. You country gentlemen bring with you into the 
people's house a freshness and sweet savour, which our 
citizens lack mightily. I would fain merit your esteem, 
heedless of those pursy fellows from hulks and warehouses, 
with one ear lappeted by the pen behind it, and the other 
an heirloom, as Charles would have had it, in Laud's star- 
chamber. Oh ! they are proud and bloody men. My heart 
melts; but alas! my authority is null : I am the servant of 
the Commonwealth : I will not, dare not, betray it. If 
K 2 



106 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER* 

Charles Stuart had only threatened my death, in the letter 
we ripped out of the saddle, I would have reproved him 
manfully and turned him adrift. 

Nob. In comparison with you, he is but as a pinnacle to 
a butress. 1 acknowledge his weaknesses, and cannot wink 
upon his crimes : but what you visit as the heaviest of them, 
perhaps was not so, although the most disastrous to both par- 
ties, the bearing of arms against his people. He fought for 
what he considered as his hereditary property ; we do the 
same ; should we be hanged for losing a lawsuit ? 

Crom. Not unless it is the second. Thou talkest finely 
and foolishly, Wat, for a man of thy calm discernment. If 
a rogue holds a pistol to my breast, do I ask him who he is 
or what ? Do 1 care whether his doublet be of catskin or 
of dogskin ? Fie upon such wicked sophisms! 

Nob. Charles was always more to be dreaded by his 
friends than by his enemies, and now by neither. 

Crom. God forbid that Englishman should be feared by 
Englishman ! but to be daunted by the weakest, to bend 
before the worst. I tell thee, Walter Noble, that if Moses 
and the prophets commanded me to this villany, I would 
draw back and mount my horse. 

Nob. I could wish that our history, already too dark with 
blood, should contain, as far as we are concerned in it, 
some unpolluted pages. 

Crom. 'Twere better so, much better. Never shall I be 
called, I promise thee, an unnecessary shedder of blood. 
Remember, my good prudent friend, of what materials our 
sectaries are composed : what hostility against all emi- 
nence, what rancour against all glory. Not only kingly 
power offends them, but every other ; and they talk of put- 
ting to the sword, as if it were the quietest, gentlest, and 
most ordinary thing in the world. 

Nob. I lament their blindness ; but follies wear out the 
faster by being hard run upon. But come, Cromwell, over- 
look them, despise them, and erect to yourself a glorious 
name by sparing a mortal enemy. 

Crom, A glorious name, I will erect, and all our fel- 
low-labourers shall rejoice at it ; but I see better than 
they do the blow descending on them, and my arm bet- 
ter than theirs can ward it off. Noble, thy heart over- 
flows with kindness for Charles Stuart: if he were at 
liberty to-morrow by thy intercession, he would sign thy 
death-warrant the day after, for serving the Commonwealth. 
A generation of vipers! There is nothing upright or 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 10? 

grateful in them : never was there a drop of true Scotch 
blood in their veins. 

Nob. Hear me, Cromwell, with equal patience on mat- 
ters more important. We all have our sufferings ; why in- 
crease one another's wantonly 1 Be the blood Scotch or 
English, French or Italian, a drummer's or a buffoon's, it 
carries a soul upon its stream, and every soul has many 
places to touch at, and much business to perform, before it 
reaches its ultimate destination. Abolish the power of 
Charles ; extinguish not his virtues. Whatever is worthy 
to be loved for any thing is worthy of preservation. 

Crom. Proportions should exist in all things. Sover- 
eigns are paid higher than others for their office : they 
should therefore be punished more severely for abusing it, 
even if the consequences of this abuse were in nothing 
more grievous or extensive. We cannot clap them in the 
stocks conveniently, nor whip them at the market-place. 
Where there is a crown there must be an axe , I would keep 
it there only. 

Nob. Lop off the rotten, press out the poisonous, keep 
well the rest. Let it suffice to have given this memorable 
example of national power and justice. 

Crom. Justice is perfect; an attribute of God ; we must 
not trifle with it. 

Nob. Should we be less merciful to our fellow-creatures 
than to our domestic animals? Before we deliver them to 
be killed, we weigh their services against their inconveni- 
ences. On the foundation of policy, when we have no bet- 
ter, let us erect the trophies of humanity : let us consider 
that, educated in the same manner, and situated in the same 
position, we ourselves might have acted as reprovably. 
Abolish that for ever, which must else for ever generate 
abuses ; and attribute the faults of the man to the office, 
not the faults of the office to the man. 

Crom. I abominate and detest kingship. 

Nob. I abominate and detest hangmanship ; but in cer- 
tain stages of society both are necessary. Let them go to- 
gether ; we want neither now. 

Crom. Prythee, Wat, since thou readest, as I see, the 
books of philosophers, didst thou ever hear of Digby's rem- 
edies by sympathy ? 

Nob. Yes, formerly. 

Crom. Well, now, I protest, I do believe there is some- 
thing in them. To cure my headache, I must breathe a 
vein in the neck of Charles. 



108 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Nob. Oliver, Oliver, others are wittiest over wine, thou 
over blood ! — cold-hearted, cruel man. 

Crom. Why, dost thou verily think me so, Walter? 
Perhaps thou art right in the main : but he alone who 
fashioned me, and who sees things deeper than we do, knows 
that. 



SECTION XL. 

ethwald — alwy Joanna Baillie. 

Ethwald. What peace ! peace, say'st thou, with these 
glorious arms, 
In conquest red, occasion bright'ning round us, 
And smiling victory, with beck'ning hand, 
Pointing to future fields of nobler strife, 
With richer honours crowii'd ! What, on the face 
Of such fair prospects draw the veil of peace 1 
Cold blasting peace ! 

Alwy, It is, indeed, a flat unpleasant tale 
For a young warriour's ear : but well hast thou 
Improv'd the little term of bold occasion ; 
Thou wert short while old Mollo's younger son, 
Now art thou Mairneith's lord. 

Eth. And what is Mairneith's lordship ! I will own 
That, to my distant view, such state appeared, 
A point of fair and noble eminence ; 
But now — what is it now 1 O ! it has sunk 
Into a petty knoll! I am as one 
Who doth attempt some lofty mountain's height, 
And having gained what to the upcast eye 
The summit's point appear'd, astonish'd sees 
Its cloudy top, majestic and enlarged, 
Towering aloft, as distant as before. 

Alwy. Patience, brave Ethwald ; ere thy locks are grey, 
Thy helmed head shall yet in battle tower, 
And fair occasion shape thee fair reward. 

Eth. Ere that my locks are grey ! the world ere now 
Hath crouch'd beneath a beardless youth. But I — 
I am as one who mounts to the azure sky 
On the rude billow's back, soon sunk again : 
Like the loud thunder of th' upbreaking cloud, 
The terror of a moment. Fate perverse ! 
War's frowning spirit was wont till now, when roused, 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 109 

To urge with whirling lash his sable steeds, 
Nor slack his furious speed till the wide land 
From bound to bound beneath his axle shook : 
But soon as in my hand the virgin spear 
Had flesh'd its ruddy point, then is he turned 
Like a tired braggard to his caves of sloth. 
Peace ! cursed peace ! Who will again unchain 
The grizly dog of war ? 

Ahoy. Mean'st thou the British prince ? 
Eth. (eagerly.) What say'st thou, Alwy ? 
Alwy. I said not aught. 
Eth. Nay, marry ! but thou didst ! 
And it has raised a thought within my mind. 
The British prince releas'd, would he not prove 
A dog of war, whose yell would soon be followed ? 
Alwy. They do indeed full hard advantage take 
Of his captivity, and put upon him 
Conditions suited to his hapless state, 
More than his princely will. 

Eth. 'Tis basely done : would that some friendly hand 
His prison would unbar and free the thrall ! 
But no, no, no ! I to the king resigned him ; 
'Twere an unworthy deed. 

Alwy. It were most difficult ; 
For now they keep him in a closer hold, 
And bind his hands with iron. 

Eth. Have they done this? I'm glad on't ! O I'm 
glad on't ! 
They promised nought unworthy of a prince 
To put upon him — Now my hands are free ! 
And, were it made of living adamant, 
I will unbar his door. Difficult say'st thou ! 
No, this hath made it easy. 

Alwy. Well, softly then ; we may devise a way 
By which the seneschal himself will seem 
The secret culprit in this act. 

Eth. No, no ! 

I like it not : though I must work i' the dark, 
I'll not in cunningly devised light 
Put on my neighbour's cloak to work his ruin, 
But let's to work a-pace ! the storm shall rise ! 
My sound shall yet be heard ! 

Alwy. Fear not ; thou shalt ere long be heard again ; 
A dark'ning storm which shall not soon be lay'd. 



110 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER 

Etli. Ah, thou hast touched where my life's life is cell'd ! 
Is there a voice of prophecy within thee ? 
I will believe there is! my stirring soul 
Leapt at thy words. Such things ere now have been : 
Men oft have spoke, unweeting of themselves ; 
Yea, the wild winds of night have uttered words, 
That have unto the listening ear of hope 
His future greatness told, ere yet his thoughts 
On any certain point had fix'd their hold. 

Ahoy. Thou may'st believe it : I myself, methinks, 
Feel secret earnest of thy future fortune ; 
And please myself to think my friendly hand 
May humbly serve, perhaps, to build thy greatness. 



SECTION XLI. 

EXTRACT FROM MR. CAMBRELENG's SPEECH IN REPLY TO 
MR. EVERETT. 

I cannot concur with the gentleman from Massachu- 
setts. So far as that gentleman would contend that wealth 
and talents will have dominion over poverty and ignorance 
under all forms of government, and that necessity, and the 
peace of society, may sometimes justify a departure from 
the liberal principles of the age, I would agree with him. 
So far as he would guard the constitutional rights of the 
south and west, and secure the peace and happiness of 
these regions of our country, I entirely accord with him. 
But the gentleman has gone too far — he has expressed opin- 
ions which ought not to escape without animadversion. I 
heard them with equal surprise and regret. I was aston- 
ished to hear hirn declare that " slavery, domestic slavery, 
say what men will, is a condition of life, as well as any 
other, to be justified by morality, religion, and international 
law" — and when, at the close of his opinions, he solemnly 
declared that this was his " confession of faith/' I lamented, 
sincerely lamented, that 

" Star-eyed Science had wandered there, 
To bring us back the tidings of despair !" 

If, sir, amidst the wild visions of German philosophy, I 
had ever reached a conclusion like this — if, in the Aulas of 
Gottingen, I had persuaded myself to adopt a political max- 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. Ill 

im so hostile to liberal institutions and the rights of man- 
kind — I would have locked it up forever in the darkest 
chamber of my mind. Or if my zeal had been too ardent 
for my discretion, this, at least, should never have been the 
theatre of my eloquence. No, sir ; if T might be permitted 
to borrow for a moment the gentleman's own weapons, I 
would say to him, that if such had been my doctrines, 1 
would have turned my back upon my native land. Follow- 
ing the course of the " dark rolling Danube/' and cutting 
my way through the Euxine, I would have visited a well 
known Bazaar of Constantinople, where I would have 
preached my doctrines amidst the rattling chains of the 
wretched captives. Nay, sir, to use the gentleman's own 
language, I would have gone thence, and "laid my fore- 
head on the footstool" of the Sultan — and entreated " him 
to set his foot on my head as a recreant citizen of a recreant 
Republic" — then averting my eyes, I would have suppli- 
cated the Turk to " drive the steel still deeper into the bleed- 
ing heart of mangled Greece." 

The gentleman from Massachusetts referred to the splen- 
did age in which we live, as M a most interesting epoch," 
as an age of " philosophy, political economy and general 
improvement." We were told, that " America had a new 
career before her. We were invoked to move with the spir- 
it of the times, and to accelerate the march of our country 
to its highest destinies. In these liberal sentiments I ac- 
cord most heartily with that gentleman. I am not one dis- 
posed, consciously, from injudicious caution, unfounded ap- 
prehensions, or narrow views, to arrest the progress of im- 
provement, or retard the march of our country towards that 
proud elevation which it must inevitably reach. I am not 
willing that the tide of improvement should roll by, and 
leave us on the desert strand. 1 would not have my coun- 
try march in the rear of other nations. No, Sir ; but I 
would wish her to move with the spirit of the age, and to 
reach her highest destinies, by cautiously avoiding every 
measure, tending, immediately or remotely, to sanction a 
departure from a pacific, wise, and independent policy ; by 
legislating in the liberal spirit and on the enlightened prin- 
ciples of the times in which we live ; and by watching this 
tide of improvement, lest it should roll by us, and break 
upon the Andes, enriching exclusively the valleys of the 
south. 



112 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

SECTION XLII. 

CATILINE AURELIUS GeOTge Croty. 

Aur tikis. What answer 's for this pile of bills, my lord ? 
Catiline. Who can have sent them here ? 
Aur. Your creditors ! 

As if some demon woke them ail at once, 
These have been crowding on me since the morn. 
Here, Caius Curtius claims the prompt discharge 
Of his half million sesterces ; besides 
The interest on your bond, ten thousand more. 
Six thousand for your Tyrian canopy; 
Here, for your Persian horses — your trireme : 
Here, debt on debt. Will you discharge them now ? 
Cat. I'll think of it. 

Aur. It must be now ; this day ! 

Or, by to-morrow, we shall have no home. 
Cat. 'Twill soon be all the same. 
Aur. We are undone ! 
Cat. Aurelius ! 

All will be well ; but hear me — stay — a little; 
I had intended to consult with you — 
On — our departure — from — the city. 

Aur. (indignantly and surprised.) Rome ? 
Cat. Even so, Aurelius ! even so : we must leave Rome. 
Aur. Let me look on you ; are you Catiline ? 
Cat. I know not what I am, — we must begone ! 
Aur. Madness ! Let them take all 1 
Cat. The gods will have it so ! 
Aur. Seize on your house ? 

Cat. Seize my last sesterce ! Let them have their wili. 
We must endure. Ay, ransack — ruin all ; 
Tear up my father's grave, tear out my heart. 
The world is wide — Can we not dig or beg 1 
Can we not find on earth a den, and tomb? 

Aur. Before J stir, they shall hew off my hands. 
Cat. What's to be done ? , m 

Aur. Now hear me, Catiline : 

This day 'tis three years since there was not in Rome, 
An eye, however haughty, but would sink 
W r hen Jturn'd on it : when I pass'd the streets 
My chariot wheel was hung on by a host 
Of your chief senators ; as if their gaze 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



113 



Beheld an emperor on its golden round ; 
An earthly providence ! 

Cat. 'Twas so ! — 'twas so ! 

But it is vanish' d — gone. 

Aur. That day shall come again ; or, in its place, 
One that shall be an era to the world ! 

Cat. What's in your thoughts? 

Aur. Our high and hurried life 

Has left us strangers to each other's souls : 
But now we think alike. You have a sword ! 
Have had a famous name i' the legions ! 

Cat. Hush! 

Aur. Have the walls ears 1 alas ! I wish they had ; 
And tongues too, to bear witness to my oath, 
And tell it to all Rome. 

Cat. Would you destroy ? 

Aur. Were I a thunderbolt ! 

Rome's ship is rotten : 
Has she not cast you out ; and would you sink 
With her, when she can give you no gain else 
Of her fierce fellowship ? Who'd seek the chain, 
That link'd him to his mortal enemy ? 
Who'd face the pestilence in his foe's house 1 
Who, when the poisoner drinks by chance the cup, 
That was to be his death, would squeeze the dregs, 
To find a drop to bear him company? 

Cat. It will not come to this. 

Aur. (haughtily.) I'll not be dragg'd, 
A show to all the city rabble ; — robb'd,— 
Down to the very mantle on our backs, — 
A pair of branded beggars ! Doubtless Cicero 

Cat. Cursed be the ground he treads ! Name him no 
more. 

Aur. Doubtless, he '11 see us to the city gates ; 
'Twill be the least respect that he can pay 
To his fallen rival. With all his lictors shouting, 
" Room for the noble vagrants; all caps off 
For Catiline ! for him that would be Consul." 

Cat. (turning away.) Thus to be, like the scorpion, ring'd 
with fire, 
Till I sting mine own heart ! (aside.) There is no hope ! 

Aur. One hope there is, worth all the rest — Revenge ! 
The time is harass'd, poor, and discontent ; 
Your spirit practised, keen, and desperate, — 
L 



114 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

The senate full of feuds — the city vext 
With petty tyranny — the legions wrong' d 

Cat. Yet, who has stirr'd 1 Aurelius, you paint the air 
With passion's pencil. 

Aur. Were my will a sword ! 

Cat. Hear me, bold heart ! The whole gross blood of 
Rome 
Could not atone my wrongs! I'm soul-shrunk, sick, 
Weary of man ! And now my mind is fix'd 
For Lybia : there to make companionship 
Rather of bear and tiger, — of the snake, — 
The lion in his hunger, — than of man I 

Aur. I had a father once, who would have plunged 
Rome in the Tiber for an angry look ! 
You saw our entrance from the Gaulish war, 
When Sylla fled ? 

Cat. My legion was in Spain. 

Aur. Rome was all eyes ; the ancient totter'd forth ; 
The cripple propp'd his limbs beside the wall ; 
The dying left his bed to look — and die. 
The way before us was a sea of heads ; 
The way behind a torrent of brown spears : 
So on we rode, in fierce and funeral pomp, 
Through the long, living streets. 

Cat. Those triumphs are but gewgaws. All the earth, 
What is it 1 Dust and smoke. I've done with life ! 

Aur. Before that eve — one hundred senators — 
And fifteen hundred knights, had paid — in blood, 
The price of taunts, and treachery, and rebellion ! 
Were my tongue thunder — I would cry, Revenge ! 

Cat. No more of this ! Begone and leave me ! 
There is a whirling lightness in my brain, 
That will not now bear questioning. Away ! 

[As Aurelius moves slowly towards the door. 
Where are our veterans now ? Look on these walls ; 
I cannot turn their tissues into life. 
Where are our revenues — our chosen friends? 
Are we not beggars ? Where have beggars friends ? 
I see no swords and bucklers on these floors! 
J shake the state ! J— What have I on earth 
But these two hands 1 Must I not dig or starve ? 
Come back ! I had forgot. My memory dies, 
I think, by the hour. Who sups with us to-night ? 
Let all be of the rarest, — spare no cost. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 115 

If 'tis our last ; — it may be — let us sink 
In sumptuous ruin, with wonderers round us ! 
Our funeral pile shall send up amber smokes ; 
We'll burn in myrrh, or — blood ! 



SECTION XLIII. 

FALSTAFF SHALLOW SILENCE BARDOLPH BULL-CALF 

wart — mouldy — feeble. ^...Shakspeare. 

Shallow. Look, here comes good Sir John. Give me 
your good hand, give me your worship's good hand : By my 
troth, you look well, and bear your years very well : wel- 
come, good Sir John. 

Falstaff. I am glad to see you well, good master Robert 
Shallow : — Master Sure-card, as I think. 

Shal. No, Sir John ; it is my cousin Silence, in com- 
mission with me. 

Fal. Good master Silence, it well befits you should be 
of the peace. 

Sil. Your good worship is welcome. 

Fal. Gentlemen, have you provided me here half a dozen 
sufficient men ? 

Shal. Marry, have we sir. Will you sit ? 

Fal. Let me see them, I beseech you. 

Shal. Where's the roll ? where's the roll ? where's the 
roll ? — Let me see, let me see. Ralph Mouldy : — let them 

appear as I call ; let them do so, let them do so. Let me 

see; wheie is Mouldy? 

Moul. Here, an't please you. 

Shal. What think you, Sir John ? a good limbed fellow , 
young, strong, and of good friends. 

Fal. Is thy name Mouldy 1 

Moul. Yea, an't please you. 

Fal. 'Tis the more time thou wert used. 

Shal. Ha, ha, ha! most excellent, i'faith ! things that 
are mouldy, lack use. Very singular good ! — In faith, well 
said, Sir John. 

Fal. Prick him, 

Moul. I was pricked well enough before, an you could 
have let me alone : my old dame will be undone now, for 
one to do her husbandry, and her drudgery ; you need 



116 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER, 



not to have pricked me ; there are other men fitter to go out 
than I. 6 

Fal Go to ; peace, Mouldy, you shall go. Mouldy, it 
is time you were spent. 
Moul Spent ! 
Shal. Peace, fellow, peace ; stand aside ; Know you 

where you are ?— For the other, Sir John :— -let me see ; 

Simon Shadow 1 

Fal Ay marry, let me have him to srt under : he's like 
to be a cold soldier. 

Shal Where's Shadow ? 

Shad. Here, sir. 

Fal. Shadow, whose son art thou ? 

Shad. My mother's son, sir. 

Fal. Thy mother's son ! like enough ; and thy father's 
shadow. 

Shal. Do you like him, Sir John ? 

Fal. Shadow will serve for summer, — prick him ; — -for 
we have a number of shadows to fill up the muster-book. 

Shal. Thomas Wart ! 

Fal Where's he ? 

Wart. Here, sir. 

Fal. Is thy name Wart 1 

Wart. Yea, sir. 

Fal. Thou art a very ragged wart. 

Shal. Shall I prick him, Sir John '? 

Fal. It were superfluous ; for his apparel is built upon 
his back, and the whole frame stands upon pins : prick him 
no more. 

Shal. Ha, ha, ha !— you can do it, sir ; you can do it : 
I commend you well. — Francis Feeble ! 

Feeb. Here, sir. 

Fal. What trade art thou, Feeble ? 

Feeb. A woman's tailor, sir. 

Shal. Shall I prick him, sir ! 

Fal You may : but if he had been a man's tailor, he 
would have pricked you. Wilt thou make as many holes 
in an enemy's battle, as thou hast done in a woman's gown ? 

Feeb. I will do my good will, sir ; you can have no more. 

Fal Well said, good woman's tailor 1 well said, coura- 
geous Feeble ! Thou wilt be as valiant as the wrathful 
dove, or most magnanimous mouse. Prick the woman's 
tailor well, master Shallow ; deep, master Shallow. 

Feeb* I would, Wart might have gone, sir. 



ME CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 117 

Fat I would, thou wert a man's tailor ; that thou might' st 
mend him, and make him fit to go. I cannot put him to a 
private soldier, that is the leader of so many thousands : Let 
that suffice, most forcible Feeble. 

Feeb. It shall suffice, sir. 

Fal I am bound to thee, invincible Feeble. Who is next 1 

Shah Peter Bull-calf, of the green ! 

Fal. Yea, marry, let us see Bull-calf. 

Bull. Here, sir. 

Fal. By my valour, a likely fellow I — Come, prick me 
Bull-calf, till he roar again. 

Bull. Good, my lord captain, 

Fal. What, dost thou roar before thou art pricked ? 

Bull. O, good sir ! 1 am a diseased man. 

Fal. What disease hast thou ? 

Bull. A villanous cold, sir ; a cough, sir ; which I caught 
with ringing in the king's affairs, upon his coronation day, 
sir. 

Fal. Come, thou shalt go to the wars in a gown ; we 
will have away thy cold ; and I will take such order, that 
thy friends shall ring for thee. Is here all ? 

Shal. Here is two more called than your number ; you 
must have but four here, sir ; — and so I pray you, go in 
with me to dinner. 

[Exeunt Falstaff, Shallow, and Silence. 

Bull. Good master corporate Bardolph, stand my 
friend ; and here is forty shillings in French crowns for 
you. In very truth, sir, I had as lief be hanged, sir, 
as go : and yet, for mine own part, sir, I do not care ; but, 
rather, because I am unwilling, and for mine own part, have 
a desire to stay with my friends ; else, sir, I did not care, 
for mine own part, so much. 

Bard. Go to ; stand aside. 

Moul. And good master corporal captain, for my old 
dame's sake, stand my friend : she has nobody to do any 
thing about her when I am gone ; and she is old, and can- 
not help herself, you shall have forty, sir. 

Bard. Go to ; stand aside. 

Feeb. By my troth I care not; a man can die but once; 
T'll ne'er bear a base mind ; an't be my destiny, so ; an't 
be not, so. No man's too good to serve his prince ; and, 
let it go which way it will, he that dies this year, is quit for 
the next. 

Bard. Well said ; thou'rt a good fellow. 
L 2 



118 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



Feeb. 'Faith, I'll bear no base mind. 

[Re-enter Falstaff > and Justices.] 

Fal. Come, sir, which men shall I have ? 

Shal. Four, of which you please. 

Bard. Sir, a word with you :— I have three pounds to 
free Mouldy and Bull-calf. 

Fal. Go to ; well. 

Shal. Come, Sir John, which four will you have ? 

Fal. Do you choose for me. 

Shal Marry then,— Mouldy, Bull-calf, Feeble, and 
Shadow. 

Fal. Mouldy, and Bull-calf: — For you, Mouldy, stay at 
home still ; you are past service i — and, for your part^ Bull- 
calf, — grow till you come unto it; I will none of you. 

Shal. Sir John, Sir John, do not yourself wrong ; they 
are your likeliest men, and 1 would have you served with 
the best. 

Fal Will you tell me, master Shallow, how to choose a 
man ? Care I for the limb, the thewes, thestature, bulk, 
and big assemblance of a man ! Give me the spirit, master 
Shallow. Here's Wart ; — you see what a ragged appear- 
ance it is : he shall charge you, and discharge you, with 
the motion of a pewterer's hammer. And this same half- 
faced fellow, Shadow, — give me this man ; he presents no 
mark to the enemy , the foeman may with as great aim level 
at the edge of a penknife : And, for a retreat — how swiftlv 
will this Feeble, the woman's tailor run off? O, give me 
the spare men, and spare me the great ones. These fellows 
will do well, master Shallow. I will not use many words 
with you : — Fare you well, gentlemen both. I thank you ; 
1 must a dozen miles to-night. Bardolph, give the soldiers 
coats. 

Shal Sir John, as you return, visit my house ; let our 
old acquaintance be renewed ; peradventure, I will with 
you to the court. 

Fal I would you would, master Shallow. 

Shal Fare you well. 



SECTION XLIV. 

EXTRACT FROM MR. EVERETT'S ORATION AT CHARLES- 
TOWN, july 4, 1828. 

About half a league from the little sea-port of Palos, in 
the province of Andalusia, in Spain, stands a convent ded- 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 119 

icated to St. Mary. Sometime in the year 1486, a poor 
wayfaring stranger, accompanied by a small boy, makes his 
appearance, on foot, at the gate of this convent, and begs of 
the porter a little bread and water for his child. This 
friendless stranger is Columbus. Brought up in the hardy 
pursuit of a mariner, with no other relaxation from its toils, 
but that of an occasional service in the fleets of his native 
country, with the burden of fifty years upon his frame, the 
unprotected foreigner makes his suit to the haughty sover- 
eigns of Portugal and Spain. He tells them, that the broad 
flat earth on which we tread, is round ; — he proposes, with 
what seems a sacrilegious hand, to lift the veil which had 
hung, from the creation of the world, over the floods of the 
ocean ; — he promises, by a western course, to reach the 
eastern shores of Asia, — the region of gold, and diamonds, 
and spices ; to extend the sovereignty of christian kings 
over realms and nations hitherto unapproached and un- 
known ; — and ultimately to perform a new crusade to the 
holy land, and ransom the sepulchre of our Saviour, with 
the new found gold of the east. 

Who shall believe the chimerical pretension? The 
learned men examine it, and pronounce it futile. The 
royal pilots have ascertained by their own experience, 
that it is groundless. The priesthood have considered it, 
and have pronounced that sentence so terrific where the 
inquisition reigns, that it is a wicked heresy ; — the com- 
mon sense, and popular feeling of men, have been roused 
first into disdainful and then into indignant exercise, 
toward a project, which, by a strange new chimera, repre- 
sented one half of mankind walking with their feet toward 
the other half. 

Such is the reception which his proposal meets. For a 
long time, the great cause of humanity, depending on the 
discovery of these fair continents, is involved in the forti- 
tude, perseverance, and spirit of the solitary stranger, al- 
ready past the time of life, when the pulse of adventure 
beats full and high. If he sink beneath the indifference of 
the great, the sneers of the wise, the enmity of the mass, 
and the persecution of a host of adversaries, high and low, 
and give up the fruitless and thankless pursuit of his noble 
vision, what a hope for mankind is blasted 1 But he does 
not sink. He shakes off his paltry enemies, as the lion 
shakes the dew-drops from his mane. That consciousness 
of motive and of strength, which always supports the man 
who is worthy to be supported, sustains him in his hour of 



120 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER* 

trial ; and at length, after years of expectation, importunity, 
and hope deferred, he launches forth upon the unknown 
deep, to discover a new world, under the patronage of Fer- 
dinand and Isabella. 

The patronage of Ferdinand and Isabella ! — Let us dwell 
for a moment on the auspices under which our country was 
brought to light. The patronage of Ferdinand and Isa- 
bella ! Yes, doubtless, they have fitted out a convoy, wor- 
thy the noble temper of the man, and the gallantry of his 
project. Convinced at length, that it is no daydream of a 
heated visionary, the fortunate sovereigns of Castile and 
Arragon, returning from their triumph over the last of the 
Moors, and putting a victorious close to a war of seven cen- 
turies' duration, have no doubt prepared an expedition of 
well appointed magnificence, to go out upon this splendid 
search for other worlds. They have made ready, no doubt, 
their proudest galleon, to waft the heroic adventurer upon 
his path of glory, with a whole armada of kindred spirits, 
to share his toils and honours. 

Alas, from his ancient resort of Palos, which he first ap- 
proached as a mendicant, — in three frail barks, of which 
two were without decks, — the great discoverer of America 
sails forth on the first voyage across the unexplored waters. 
Such is the patronage of kings. A few years pass by ; he 
discovers a new hemisphere ; the wildest of his visions fade 
into insignificance, before the reality of their fulfilment ; 
he finds a new world for Castile and Leon, and comes 
back to Spain, loaded with iron fetters* Republics, it is 
said, are ungrateful ! — such are the rewards of rnonarchs. 



SECTION XLV. 

HERETJLF— THANE.. ...JoailJia BallUe. 

Herculf. Welcome, my friend ! art thou the first to 
join me ? 
This, as I guess, should be the appointed time : 
For o'er our heads have pass'd on homeward wing 
Dark flights of rooks, and daws, and flocking birds, 
Wheeling aloft with wild dissonant screams ; 
Whilst from each hollow glen and river's bed 
Rose the white curling mist, and softly stole 
Up the dark wooded banks. And yet, methinks, 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 121 

The deeper shades of ev'ning come not after, 
As they are wont, but day is lengthened out 
Most strangely. 

Thane. See'st thou those paly streams of shivering light 
So widely spread along the northern sky ! 
They to the twilight grey that brightness lend 
At which thou wonderest. Look up, I pray thee ! 

Her. What may it mean? it is a beauteous light. 

Tha. In truth, I know not. Many a time have I 
On hill and heath beheld the changeful face 
Of awful night; I've seen the moving stars 
Shoot rapidly athwart the sombre sky, 
Red fiery meteors in the welkin blaze, 
And sheeted lightnings gleam, but ne'er before 
Saw I a sight like this. It is belike 
Some sign portentous of our coming fate ; 
Had we not better pause, and con a while 
This daring scene, ere yet it be too late ? 

Her. No, by this brave man's sword ! not for an hour 
Will I the glorious vengeful deed delay, 
Though heaven's high dome were naming o'er my head, 
And earth beneath me shook. If it be aught 
Portentous, it must come from higher powers ; 
For demons ride but on the lower clouds, 
Or raise their whirlwinds in the nether air. 
Every good spirit still must favour those 
Who war on virtue's side : therefore, I say, 
Let us march boldly to the glorious work : 
It is a sign fortelling Ethwald's fall. 
Now for our valiant friends ; they must be near. 



SECTION XLYL 

SIR ANTHONY ABSOLUTE CAPT. ABSOLUTE. 

R. B. Sheridan. 

Capt. Absolute. Sir, I am delighted to see you here, and 
looking so well ! your sudden arrival at Bath made me ap- 
prehensive for your health. 

Sir Anthony. Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. 
What, you are recruiting here, hey ? 

Capt. A. Yes, Sir, I am on duty. 

Sir A, Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I did 



122 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

not expect it ! for I was going to write to you on a little 
matter of business. Jack, I have been considering that I 
grow old and infirm, and shall not probably trouble you 
long. 

Capt. A. Pardon me, Sir, I never saw you look more 
strong and hearty, and I pray fervently that you may con- 
tinue so. 

Sir A. I hope your prayers may be heard with all my 
heart. Well then, Jack, I have been considering that I am 
so strong and hearty, I may continue to plague you a long 
time. Now, Jack, I am sensible that the income of your 
commission, and what 1 have hitherto allowed you, is but a 
small pittance for a lad of your spirit. 

Capt. A. Sir, you are very good. 

Sir A. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my 
boy make some figure in the world. I have resolved, there- 
fore, to fix you at once in a noble independence. 

Capt. A. Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Yet, 
Sir, I presume you would not wish me to quit the army ? 

Sir A. Oh ! that shall be as your wife chooses. 

Capt. A. My wife, Sir ? 

Sir A. Ay, ay, settle that between you. 

Capt A. A wife, Sir, did you say 1 

Sir A. Ay, a wife; why, did not I mention her before? 

Capt. A. Not a word of her, Sir. 

Sir A. Odd so ; I mustn't forget her, though. Yes, 
Jack, the independence I was talking of is by a marriage; 
the fortune is saddled with a wife : but I suppose that makes 
no difference ? 

Capt A. Sir, Sir ! you amaze me ! 

Sir A. Why, what the deuce's the matter with the fool ? 
just now you were all gratitude and duty. 

Capt. A. I was, Sir ; you talked to me of independence 
and a fortune, but not a word of a wife. 

Sir A. W 7 hy, what difference does that make ? Odds 
life, sir ! if you have the estate, you must take it with the 
live stock on it, as it stands. 

Capt. A. Pray, Sir, who is the lady ? 

Sir A. What's that to you, sir? come, give me your 
promise to love, and to marry her directly. 

Capt. A. Sure, sir, that is not very reasonable, to sum- 
mon my affections for a lady I know nothing of! 

Sir A. 1 am sure, sir, 'tis more unreasonable in you to 
object to a lady you know nothing of. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 123 

Capt. A. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once 
for all, that in this point 1 cannot obey you. 

Sir A. Harkye, Jack ; — I have heard you for some time 
with patience — I have been cool, — quite cool ; but take 
care ; you know I am compliance itself, when I am not 
thwarted ; no one more easily led, when I have my own 
way ; but don't put me in a frenzy. 

Capt. A. Sir, I must repeat it ; in this I cannot obey 
you. 

Sir A. Now, hang me, if ever I call you Jack again 
while I live ! 

Capt. A. Nay, sir, but hear me. 

Sir A. Sir, 1 wont hear a word, not a word ! not one 
word ! so give me your promise by a nod, and I'll tell you 
what, Jack — I mean, you dog — if you don't, by — — 
Capt. A. What, sir, promise to link myself to some 

mass of ugliness ; to 

Sir A. Zounds ! sirrah ! the lady shall be as ugly as I 
choose : she shall have a hump on each shoulder ; she shall 
be as crooked as the crescent : her one eye shall roll like the 
bull's in Cox's museum ; she shall have a skin like a mum- 
my, and the beard of a Jew — She shall be all this, sirrah ! 
yet I'll make you ogle her all day, and sit up all night, to 
write sonnets on her beauty. 

Capt. A. This is reason and moderation, indeed ! 
Sir A. None of your sneering, puppy ! no grinning, 
jackanapes ! 

Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humour 
for mirth in my life. 

Sir A. 'Tis false, sir; I know you are laughing in your 
sleeve ; 1 know you'll grin when I am gone, sirrah ! 
Capt. A. Sir, I hope 1 know my duty better. 
Sir A. None of your passion, sir ! none of your violence, 
if you please ; it wont do with me, I promise you. 
Capt A. Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life. 
Sir A. 'Tis a confounded lie ! I know you are in a pas- 
sion in your heart ; 1 know you are, you hypocritical young 
dog ; but it wont do. 

Capt. A. Nay, sir, upon my word 

Sir A. So you will fly out ! can't you be cool, like me? 
what good can passion do 1 passion is of no service, you 
impudent, insolent, overbearing reprobate ! there, you sneer 
again ! don't provoke me ! but you rely upon the mildness 
of my temper, you do, you dog ! you play upon the meek- 
ness of my disposition ! yet, take care ; the patience of a 



124 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

saint may be overcome at last ! but mark ! I give you six 
hours and a half to consider of this : if you then agree, 
without any condition to do every thing on earth that I 
choose, why — confound you ! I may in time forgive you. 
If not, zounds ! don't enter the same hemisphere with me ! 
don't dare to breathe the same air, or use the same light 
with me ; but get an atmosphere and a sun of your own : 
I'll strip you of your commission : I'll lodge a five-and-three- 
pence in the hands of trustees, and you shall live on the 
interest. I'll disown you, I'll disinherit you ! and hang 
me ! if ever I call you Jack again ! [Exit. 

Capt. A. Mild, gentle, considerate father! I kiss your 
hands. 



SECTION XL VII. 

EXTRACT FROM MR. WEBSTER'S SPEECH IN REPLY TO 
MR. HAYNE. 

Mr. President, I have thus stated the reasons of my dissent 
to the doctrines which have been advanced and maintained. 
I am conscious of having detained you, and the Senate, 
much too long. I was drawn into the debate, with no pre- 
vious deliberation such as is suited to the discussion of so 
grave and important a subject. But it is a subject of which 
my heart is full, and I have not been willing to suppress the 
utterance of its spontaneous sentiments. 

I cannot, even now, persuade myself to relinquish it, 
without expressing, once more, my deep conviction, that 
since it respects nothing less than the union of the states, it 
is of most vital and essential importance to the public hap- 
piness. I profess, sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept 
steadily in view the prosperity and honour of the whole 
country, and the preservation of our federal union. It is 
to that union we owe oar safety at home, and our consid- 
eration and dignity abroad. It is to that union that we are 
chiefly indebted for whatever makes us most proud of our 
country. That union we reached, only by the discipline of 
our virtues, in the severe school of adversity. It had its 
origin in the necessities of disordered finance, prostrate 
commerce, and ruined credit. Under its benign influ- 
ences, these great interests immediately awoke, as from the 
dead, and sprang forth with newness of life. Every year of 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 125 

its duration has teemed with fresh proofs of its utility and 
its blessings ; and although our territory has stretched out, 
wider and wider, and our population spread farther and far- 
ther, they have not outran its protection, or its benefits. It 
has been to us all a copious fountain of national, social, 
personal happiness. 1 have not allowed myself, sir, to 
look beyond the union, to see what might lie hidden in 
the dark recess behind. I have not coolly weighed the 
chances of preserving liberty, when the bonds that unite 
us together shall be broken asunder. I have not accus- 
tomed myself to hang over the precipice of disunion, to 
see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom the depth of 
the abyss below ; nor could I regard him as a safe counsel- 
lor in the affairs of this government, whose thoughts should 
be mainly bent on considering, not how the union should 
be best preserved, but how tolerable might be the condition 
of the people when it shall be broken up and destroyed. 
While the union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying 
prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. 
Beyond that I seek not to penetrate the veil. God grant 
that, in my day, at least, that curtain may not rise. God 
grant that on my vision never may be opened what lies be- 
hind. When my eyes shall be turned to behold, for the 
last time, the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on 
the broken and dishonoured fragments of a once glorious 
union ; on states dissevered, discordant, belligerant ; on a 
land rent with civil feuds, or drenched it may be, in frater- 
nal blood ! Let their last feeble and lingering glance, 
rather, behold the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now 
known and honoured throughout the earth, and still full 
high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their 
original lustre, not a stripe erased or polluted, nor a single 
star obscured — bearing for its motto, no such miserable in- 
terrogatory as — What is all this worth? Nor those other 
words of delusion and folly — Liberty first, and Union after- 
wards — but every where, spread all over in characters of 
living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over 
the sea and over the land, and in every wind under the 
whole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every true 
American heart — Liberty and Union, now and forever, one 
and inseparable ! 

M 



126 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

SECTION XLVIII. 

octavio — maximin S. T. Coleridge. 

Octavio. My son ! the road, the human being travels, 
That, on which blessing comes and goes, doth follow 
The river's course, the valley's playful windings, 
Curves round the corn-field and the hill of vines, 
Honouring the holy bounds of property ! 
And thus secure, though late, leads to its end. 
A war of fifteen years 
Hath been thy education and thy school. 
Peace hast thou never witnessed ! There exists 
An higher than the warrior's excellence. 
In war itself war is no ultimate purpose. 
The vast and sudden deeds of violence, 
Adventures wild, and wonders of the moment, 
These are not they, my son, that generate 
The calm, the blissful, the enduring mighty ! 
Lo there ! the soldier, rapid architect ! 
Builds his light town of canvas, and at once 
The whole scene moves and bustles momently, 
With arms, and neighing steeds, and mirth and quarrel 
The motley market fills ; the roads, the streams 
Are crowded with new freights — trade stirs and hurries ! 
But on some morrow morn, all suddenly, 
The tents drop down, the horde renews its march, 
Dreary and solitary as a church-yard ; 
The meadow and down-trodden seed-plot lie, 
And the year's harvest is gone utterly. 

Maximin. O let the emperor make peace, my father ! 
Most gladly would I give the blood-stained laurel 
For the first violet of the leafless spring, 
Plucked in those quiet fields where I have journeyed ! 

Oct. What ails thee 1 What so moves thee all at once ? 

Max. Peace have I ne'er beheld ? I have beheld it. 
From thence am I come hither : O ! that sight, 
It glimmers still before me, like some landscape 
Left in the distance, — some delicious landscape ! 
My road conducted me through countries where 
The war has not yet reached: Life, life, my father — 
My venerable father, life has charms 
Which we have ne'er experienced. We have been 
But voyaging along its barren coasts, 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 127 

Like some- poor ever-roaming horde of pirates, 
That, crowded in the rank and narrow ship, 
House on the wild sea with wild usages, 
Nor know aught of the main land, but the bays 
Where safeliest they may venture a thieves' landing. 
Whate'er in the inland dales the land conceals 
Of fair and exquisite, O ! nothing, nothing, 
Do- we behold of that in our rude voyage. 

Oct. And so your journey has revealed this to you ? 

Max. 'Twas the first leisure of my life. O tell me, 
What is the meed and purpose of the toil, 
The painful toil, which robbed me of my youth, 
Left me an heart unsouled and solitary, 
A spirit uninformed, unornamented. 
For the camp's stir, and crowd, and ceaseless larum, 
The neighing war-horse, the air-shattering trumpet, 
The unvaried, still-returning hour of duty, 
Word of command, and exercise of arms — 
There's nothing here, there's nothing in all this 
To satisfy the heart, the gasping heart ! 
Mere bustling nothingness, where the soul is not — 
This cannot be the sole felicity, 
These cannot be man's best and only pleasures ! 

Oct. Much hast thou learnt, my son, in this short journey. 

Max. O ! day, thrice lovely ! when at length the soldier 
Returns home into life ; when he becomes 
A fellow-man among his fellow men. 
The colours are unfurled, the cavalcade 
Marshals, and now the buzz is hushed, and hark ! 
Now the soft peace-march beats, home, brothers, home ! 
The caps and helmets are all garlanded 
With green boughs, the last plundering of the fields. 
The city gates fly open of themselves, 
They need no longer the petard to tear them. 
The ramparts are all filled with men and women, 
With peaceful men and women, that send onwards 
Kisses and welcomings upon the air, 
Which they make breezy with affectionate gestures. 
From all the towers rings out the merry peal, 
The joyous vespers of a bloody day, 
O happy man, O fortunate ! for whom 
The well-known door, the faithful arms are open, 
The faithful tender arms with mute embracing, 



128 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



SECTION XLIX. 
sir lucius o'trigger — bob acres R. B. Sheridan. 

Sir Lucius. Mr. Acres, I am delighted to embrace you. 

Acres. My dear Sir Lucius, I kiss your hands. 

Sir L. Pray, my friend, what has brought you so sud- 
denly to Bath. 

Acr. 'Faith, I have followed Cupid's jack-a-lantern, and 
find myself in a quagmire at last ! In short, I have been 
very ill-used, Sir Lucius. I don't choose to mention names, 
but look on me as a very ill-used gentleman ! 

Sir L. Pray, what is the case? I ask no names. 

Acr. Mark me, Sir Lucius ; I fall as deep as need be 
in love with a young lady ; her friends take my part. 1 fol- 
low her to Bath, send word of my arrival ; and receive an- 
swer, that the lady is to be otherwise disposed of. This, 
Sir Lucius, I call being ill-used. 

Sir L. Very ill, upon my conscience ! Pray, can you 
divine the cause of it ? 

Acr. Why, there's the matter: she has another lover, 
one Beverley, who, I am told, is now in Bath. Odds slan- 
ders and lies ! he must be at the bottom of it. 

Sir JL. A rival in the case, is there ? and you think he 
has supplanted you unfairly? 

Acr. Unfairly ! to be sure he has. He never could 
have done it fairly. 

Sir L. Then sure you know what is to be done ! 

Acr. Not I, upon my soul ! 

Sir L. We wear no swords here, but you understand me 1 

Acr. What ! fight him ? 

Sir L. Ay, to be sure : what can I mean else ? 

Acr. But he has given me no provocation. 

Sir L. Now, I think he has given you the greatest prov- 
ocation in the world. Can a man commit a more heinous 
offence against another, than to fall in love with the same 
woman? Oh, by my soul, it is the most unpardonable 
breach of friendship. 

Acr. Breach of friendship ? Ay, ay ; but I have no ac- 
quaintance with this man. I never saw him in my life. 

Sir L. That's no argument at all — he has the less right 
then to take such a liberty. 

Acr. 'Gad, that's true — I grow full of anger, Sir Lucius I 
I fire apace ; odds hilts and blades ! I find a man may have 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 129 

a deal of valour in him, and not know it ! But couldn't 1 
contrive to have a little right on my side 1 

Sir L. What signifies right, when your honour is con- 
cerned ? do you think Achilles, or my little Alexander the 
great, ever inquired where the right lay ? No, by my soul, 
they drew their broad swords, and left the lazy sons of 
peace to settle the justice of it. 

Acr. Your words are a grenadier's march to my heart ! 
I believe courage must be catching 1 I certainly do feel a 
kind of valour arising as it were — a kind of courage, as I 
may say — odds flints, pans, and triggers ! I'll challenge 
him directly. 

Sir L. Ah, my little friend ! if I had Blunderbuss Hall 
here — I could show you a range of ancestry in the O 5 Trig- 
ger line, that would furnish the New Room. For though the 
mansion-house and dirty acres have slipped through my fin- 
ers, our honour and the family pictures are as fresh as ever. 

Acr. Oh, Sir Lucius, I have had ancestors too i every 
man of them colonel or captain in the militia ! odds balls 
and barrels ! say no more — I'm braced for it. The thunder 
of your words has soured the milk of human kindness in 
my breast ! Zounds ! as the man in the play says, " 1 could 
do such deeds." 

Sir L. Come, come, there must be no passion at all in 
the case ; these things should always be done civilly. 

Acr. I must be in a passion, Sir Lucius ; I must be in 
a rage. Dear Sir Lucius, let me be in a rage, if you love 
me. Come, here's pen and paper. [Sits down to write.] I 
would the ink were red ! Indite, 1 say, indite ! How shall 
I begin ? Odds bullets and blades ! I'll write a good bold 
hand, however. 

Sir L. Pray, compose yourself. 

Acr. Come, now shall I begin with an oath ? 

Sir L. Pho, pho ! do the thing decently. Begin now 
— Sir 

Acr. That's too civil by half. 

Sir L. To prevent the confusion that might arise— 

Acr. Well. 

Sir L. From our both addressing the same lady — 

Acr. Ay — there's the reason — same lady — Well. 

Sir L. T shall expect the favour of your company ', — 

Acr. Zounds ! I'm not asking him to dinner ! 

Sir L. Pray, be easy. 
M 2 



130 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Acr. Well, then, honour of your company, — * 

Sir L. To settle our pretensions, — 

Acr. Well. 

Sir L. Let me see ; ay, King's-Mead-fields will do ; in 
King' s-Mead-Jields . 

Acr. So, that's done. Well, I'll fold it up presently ; 
my own crest, a hand and dagger, shall be the seal. 

Sir L. You see, now, this little explanation will put a 
stop at once to all confusion or misunderstanding that might 
arise between you. 

Acr. Ay, we fight to prevent any misunderstanding. 

Sir L. Now, I'll leave you to fix your own time. Take 
my advice, and you'll decide it this evening, if you can ; 
then, let the worst come of it, 'twill be off your mind to- 
morrow. 

Acr. Very true. 

Sir L. So I shall see nothing more of you, unless it be 
by letter, till the evening. 1 would do myself the honour 
to carry your message ; but, to tell you a secret, I believe I 
shall have just such another affair on my own hands. There 
is a gay captain here who put a jest on me lately at the ex- 
pense of my country, and I only want to fall in with the 
gentleman, to call him out. 

Acr. By my valour, I should like to see you fight first ! 
Odds life, I should like to see you kill him, if it was only 
to get a little lesson ! 



SECTION L. 

EXTRACT FROM THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA Mrs. HemanS. 

Men of Valencia ! in an hour like this, 

What do ye here ? 

E'en now, the children of your chief are led 

Forth by the Moor to perish ! — Shall this be, — 

Shall the high sound of such a name be hushed, 

I' th' land to which for ages it hath been 

A battle-word > as 'twere some passing note 

Of shepherd music ? — Must this work be done, 

And ye lie pining here, as men in whom 

The pulse which God hath made for noble thought 

Can so be thrilled no longer ? Are ye so poor 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 131 

Of soul, my countrymen ! that ye can draw 

Strength from no deeper source than that which sends 

The red blood mantling through the joyous veins, 

And gives the fleet step wings ? — Why, how have age 

And sensitive womanhood ere now endured, 

Through pangs of searching fire, in some proud cause, 

Blessing that agony ? — Think ye the power 

Which bore them nobly up, as if to teach 

The torturer whose eternal Heaven had set 

Bounds to his sway, was earthy, of this earth, 

This dull mortality 7 — Nay, then look on me ! 

Death's touch hath marked me, and I stand amongst you, 

As one whose place, i' th' sunshine of your world, 

Shall soon be left to fill ! — I say, the breath 

Of th 5 incense, floating through yon fane, shall scarce 

Pass from your path before me ! But even now, 

I have that within me, kindling through the dust, 

Which from all time hath made high deeds its voice 

And token to the nations ! — Look on me ! 

Why hath Heaven poured forth courage, as a flame, 

Wasting the womanish heart, which must be still'd 

Yet sooner for its swift consuming brightness, 

If not to shame your doubt, and your despair, 

And your soul's torpor ? — Yet, arise and arm ! 

It may not be too late. For whom 

Hath He, who shakes the mighty with a breath 

From their high places, made the fearfulness, 

And ever-wakeful presence of his power, 

To the pale startled earth most manifest, 

But for the weak ? — Was't for the helm'd and crown ? d 

That suns were stay'd at noonday ? — Stormy seas 

As a rill parted ? — Mail'd archangels sent 

To wither up the strength of kings with death ? 

— I tell you if these marvels have been done, 

'Tvvas for the wearied and th' oppressed of men ; 

They needed such ! — And generous faith hath power 

By her prevailing spirit, e'en yet to work 

Deliverances, whose tale shall live with those 

Of the great elder time ! — Be of good heart! 

Who is forsaken ? — He that gives the thought 

A place within his breast ! — 'Tis not for you. 

—Know ye this banner ? 'Tis the Cid's. The Cid's ! 

Who breathes that name but in th' exulting tone 

Which the heart rings to 1 — Why, the very wind 



132 THE CLASSICAL Sl*EjAKErt* 

As it swells out the noble standard's fold 

Hath a triumphant sound ! — =The Cid's !-Mt moved 

Even as a sign of victory through the land, 

From the free skies ne'er stooping to a foe ! 

Ye linger still ?-^Upon this very air, 

He that was born in happy hour for Spain, 

Pour'd forth his conquering spirit ! — 'Twas the breeze 

From your own mountains which came down to wave 

This banner of his battles, as it drooped 

Above the champion's death-bed. Nor even then 

Its tale of glory closed. They made no moan 

O'er the dead hero, and no dirge was sung, 

But the deep tambour and the shrill horn of war 

Told when the mighty pass'd ! — They wrapt him not 

With the pale shroud, but braced the warrior's form 

In war-array, and on his barbed steed, 

As for a triumph, rear'd him ; marching forth 

In the hush'd midnight from Valencia's walls, 

Beleaguer'd then, as now. All silently 

The stately funeral moved : — but who was he 

That follow'd, charging on the tall white horse, 

And with the solemn standard, broad and pale, 

Waving in sheets of snow-light ? — And the cross, 

The bloody cross, far-blazing from his shield, 

And the fierce meteor-sword? — They fled, they fled I 

The kings of Afric, with their countless hosts, 

Were dust in his red path ; — The scimetar 

Was shivered as a reed ! — for in that hour 

The warrior-saint that keeps the watch for Spain, 

Was arm'd betimes ! — And o'er that fiery field 

The Cid's high banner stream'd all joyously, 

For still its lord was there ! Will he see 

The noble stem hewn down, the beacon-light 

Which his house for ages o'er the land 

Hath shone through cloud and storm, thus quench'd at once ? 

Will he not aid his children in the hour 

Of this their uttermost peril ? — Awful power 

Is with the holy dead, and there are times 

When the tomb hath no chain they cannot burst ! 

— Is it a thing forgotten, how he woke 

From its deep rest of old, remembering Spain, 

In her great danger ? — At the night's mid-watch 

How Leon started, when the sound was heard 

That shook her dark and hollow-echoing streets, 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 133 

As with the heavy tramp of steel-clad men, 

By thousands marching through ! — For he had risen ! 

The Campeador was on his march agairly 

And in his arms, and followed by his hosts 

Of shadowy spearmen ! — He had left the world 

From which we are dimly parted, and gone forth, 

And call'd his buried warriors from their sleep, 

Gathering them round him to deliver Spain ; 

For Afric was upon her! — Morning broke — 

Day rushed through the clouds of battle ; — but at eve 

Our God had triumph'd, and the rescued land 

Sent up a shout of victory from the field, 

That rock'd her ancient mountains. 



SECTION LI. 

novall — romont — charmi Mas singer. 

Charmi. The cause 

We come to offer to your lordship's censure, 
Is in itself so noble, that it needs not 
Or rhetoric in me that plead, or favour 
From your grave lordship to determine of it ;. 
Since to the praise of your impartial justice, 
(Which guilty, nay, condemned men, dare not scandal) 
It will erect a trophy of your mercy. 
To say, the late dead marshal, 
The father of this young lord here, my client, 
Hath done his country great and faithful service, 
Might task me of impertinence, to repeat 
What your grave lordship cannot but remember. 
He, in his life, became indebted to 
These thrifty men, (I will not wrong their credits, 
By giving them the attributes they now merit,) 
And failing, by the fortune of the wars, 
Of means to free himself from his engagements, 
He was arrested, and, for want of bail, 
Imprison'd at their suit ; and, not long after, 
With loss of liberty, ended his life. 
And, though it be a maxim in our laws, 
All suits die with the person, these men's malice 
In death finds matter for their hate to work on, 



134 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Denying him the decent rites of burial, 
Which the sworn enemies of the christian faith 
Grant freely to their slaves. May it therefore please 
Your lordship so to fashion your decree, 
That, what their cruelty doth forbid, your pity 
May give allowance to. 

Novall. How long have you, sir, 

Practised in court? 

Char. Some twenty years, my lord. 

Nov. By your gross ignorance, it should appear 
Not twenty days. 

Char. I hope I have given no cause 

In this, my lord. 

Nov. How dare you move the court 

To the dispensing with an act confirm'd 
By parliament, to the terror of all bankrupts 1 
Go home ; and with more care peruse the statutes : 
Or the next motion, savouring of this boldness, 
May force you, sir, to leap, against your will, 
Over the place you plead at. 

Char. I foresaw this. 

Romont. Why does your lordship think the moving of 
A cause more honest than this court had ever 
The honour to determine, can deserve 
A check like this ? 

Nov. Strange boldness ! 

Rom. 'Tis fit freedom : 

Or, do you conclude an advocate cannot hold 
His credit with the judge, unless he study 
His face more than the cause for which he pleads ? 
Or cannot you, that have the power 
To qualify the rigour of the laws 
When you are pleased, take a little from 
The strictness of your sour decrees, enacted 
In favour of the greedy creditors, 
Against the o'erthrown debtor ? 

Nov. Sirrah ! you that prate 

Thus saucily, what are you ? 

Rom. Why, I'll tell thee, 

Thou purple-colour'd man ! I am one to whom 
Thou ow'st the means thou hast of sitting there, 
A corrupt elder. 

The robe thou wear'st is my gift ! and those eyes, 
That meet no object so base as their master, 
Had been long since torn from the guilty head, 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 135 

And thou thyself a slave to some needy Swiss, 
Had I not worn a sword, and used it better 
Than, in thy prayers, thou ever didst thy tongue. 

Nov. Shall such an insolence pass unpunished ! 

Rom. Yet 1, that, in my service done my country, 
Disdain to be put in the scale with thee, 
Confess myself unworthy to be valued 
With the least part, nay, hair of the dead marshal ; 
Of whose so many glorious undertakings, 
Make choice of any one, and that the meanest, 
Perform'd against the subtile fox of France, 
The politic Louis, or the more desperate Swiss, 
And 'twill outweigh all the good purposes, 
Though put in act, that ever gownman practised. 

Nov. Away with him to prison ! 

Ro?n. If that curses, 

Urged justly, and breathed forth so, ever fell 
On those that did deserve them, let not mine 
Be spent in vain now, that thou from this instant 
Mayst, in thy fear that they will fall upon thee, 
Be sensible of the plagues they shall bring with them. 
And for denying of a little earth, 
To cover what remains of our great soldier, 
May all your friends prove false, your factors thieves, 
And, while you live, your riotous heirs undo you ! 
And thou, the patron of their cruelty, 
Of all thy lordships live not to be the owner 
Of so much dirt as will conceal a dog, 
Or, what is worse, thyself in ! And thy years, 
To th' end thou mayst be wretched, I wish many; 
And, as thou hast denied the dead a grave, 
May misery in thy life make thee desire one — 
Which men and all the elements keep from thee ! 



SECTION LIL 

beverley— fable George Colman. 

Beverley. I am here, to attend your pleasure, sir. 

Fable. To witness your own irretrievable ruin, sir! How 
comes it, Mr. Beverley, how comes it, I say, that you have 
hitherto kept your adventuring in the alley, your infamous 
gambling in India-stock, so profound a secret from me ? 



136 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Bev. Spare your reproaches, Mr. Fable ! They are 
needless. I know all my fault, and all my misery. Ruin 
and infamy now stare me in the face, and drive me to de- 
spair. The vain hopes I had cherished of avoiding both 
are frustrated ; and there is not at this moment a more pit- 
iable object than the wretch you now see before you. 

Fab. Pitiable ! And what part of your conduct, sir, has 
entitled you to compassion ? To that compassion, which 
the characteristic humanity of this nation has ever shown 
to the unfortunate ? — sometimes, indeed, to the imprudent ? 
Have you, sir, any claim to this? You, who. have so gross- 
ly abused the mutual confidence between man and man, and 
betrayed the important trust reposed in you — What ! a 
banker ! a banker, Mr. Beverley, not only squandering his 
own fortune, but playing with the property of others ! — the 
property of unconscious persons silently melting away, as 
if by forgery, under his hands, without their own prodigal- 
ity ! And is such a man, because he is at length buried 
in the ruin he has pulled down on others, an object of com- 
passion ? No, sir, nothing is to be lamented but the mild- 
ness of his punishment. 

Bev. The very atrociousness of his crime, the pungency 
of his guilt and remorse, which put him upon a rack se- 
verer than any penal laws could devise, still render him an 
object of pity. 

Fab. Your remorse and reformation, I fear, were but 
hypocrisy. Where was that ingenuous confidence that 
would else have prompted you to lay open this dark transac- 
tion, as well as the rest of your unjustifiable extravagance ? 
Your candour, in that instance, would at least have argued 
the sincerity of your professions, and afforded a real proof 
of your penitence. 

Bev. Oh, Sir, do not attribute my silence to deceit ! I 
had been taught to hope and believe that the event would 
have proved prosperous ; and thought to have surprised you 
with my unexpected good fortune. But, oh, what a cruel 
reverse have I now to experience ! 

Fab. A reverse that the daily experience of thousands 
might have warned you to avoid, rather than to build your 
hopes on sach a sandy foundation. The tide of eastern 
riches flowing in upon uSj^which might have scattered plen- 
ty over our country, such adventurers as you, Mr. Beverley, 
have rendered the parent of poverty, and the means of al- 
most general bankruptcy. A simple individual to rise to- 
day worth half a million — an undone man to-morrow ! Are 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 137 

these the principles of commerce ? Were these the lessons 
which your worthy father transmitted to you ? or which 
I have inculcated ? 

Bev. Have mercy, Mr. Fable ; consider my situation, 
and do not seek to aggravate the horrors of it ! — I who so 
lately thought myself in the road to prosperity, hoping to 
retrieve my fortune, and redeem my character, now shortly 
to be branded as the most faithless of beings, the basest 
of mankind ! — Distraction ! 

Fab. Your situation, I own, is dreadful; but by what 
an unpardonable complication of depravity have you brought 
it upon yourself, Mr. Beverley ! Not content with one spe- 
cies of enormity, but industriously multiplying your ruin, 
and combining in yourself the double vices of a man of 
business, and a man of pleasure ! Gambling the whole morn- 
ing in the alley, and sitting down at night to quinze and 
hazard at St. James's ; by turns, making yourself a prey to 
the rooks and sharks at one end of the town, and the bulls 
and bears at the other ! Formerly, a young spendthrift 
was contented with one species of prodigality — but it was 
reserved for you and your precious associates to compound 
this new medley of folly, this olio of vice and extravagance, 
at once including the dissoluteness of an abandoned de- 
bauchee, the chicanery of a pettyfogger, and the dirty trick- 
ing of a fraudulent stock-jobbing broker. 

Bev. Go on ; go on, Sir ! it is less than I merit, and I 
can endure it with patience. My late humiliation was but 
the prologue to my total ruin. The most desperate calamity 
cannot now make me more miserable. 

Fab. Oh, Beverley ! did you but know the consolation 
I had in store for you, the schemes I had formed to make 
you easy in your circumstances, you would still more regret 
this cruel disappointment. Go, young man ! go to those 
friends on whom you formerly placed such reliance, and 
try what they will contribute to deliver you from ruin ! — 
Leave me awhile — studying to exert my weak endeavours to 
preserve my friend — or, if they fail, struggling to arm my 
mind with fortitude and patience. 

Bev. Where shall I direct myself? to whom shall I ap- 
ply ? My situation, I fear is hopeless. The inhabitant of a 
dungeon, under sentence of execution, is in a state of hap- 
piness, to what I feel at this moment. 

N 



138 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER, 

SECTION LIII. 

JUGURTHA IN PRISON Rev. C. Wolfe. 

Well — is the rack prepared — the pincers heated 1 

Where is the scourge ? How — not employed in Rome 1 

We have them in Numidia. Not in Rome ? 

I'm sorry for it ; I could enjoy it now ; 

I might have felt them yesterday ; but now, — 

Now I have seen my funeral procession ; 

The chariot-wheels of Marius have rolPd o'er me : 

His horses' hoofs have trampled me in triumph ; 

1 have attain'd that terrible consummation 

My soul could stand aloof, and from on high 

Look down upon the ruins of my body 

Smiling in apathy ; 1 feel no longer ; 

I challenge Rome to give another pang. 

Oh ! how he smiled, when he beheld me pause 

Before his car, and scowl upon the mob; 

The curse of Rome was burning on my lips, 

And I had gnaw'd my chain, and hurl'd it at them, 

But that I knew he would have smiled again. 

A king ! and led before the gaudy Marius, 

Before those shouting masters of the world, 

As if I had been conquer'd : while each street, 

Each peopled wall, and each insulting window, 

Peal'd forth their brawling triumphs o'er my head. 

Oh ! for a lion from thy woods, Numidia !— 

Or had I, in that moment of disgrace, 

Enjoy'd the freedom but of yonder slave, 

I would have made my monument in Rome. 

Yet am I not that fool, that Roman fool, 

To think disgrace entombs the hero's soul, — 

For ever damps his fires, and dims his glories; 

That no bright laurel can adorn the brow 

That once has bow'd ; no victory's trumpet-sound 

Can drown in joy the rattling of his chains? 

What avails it now, 
That my proud views despised the narrow limits, 
Which minds that span and measure out ambition 
Had fix'd to mine; and, while I seem'd intent 
On savage subjects and Numidian forests, 
My soul had pass'd the bounds of Africa! — 
Defeated, overthrown! yet to the last 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 139 

Ambition taught me hope, and still my mind, 

Through danger, flight, and carnage, grasp'd dominion ; 

And had not Bocchus — curses, curses on him ! — 

What Rome has done, she did it for ambition ; 

What Rome has done, 1 might — I would have done ; 

What thou hast done, thou wretch ! — Oh had she proved 

Nobly deceitful : had she seized the traitor, 

And joined him with the fate of the betrayed, 

I had forgiven her all ; for he had been 

The consolation of my prison hours ; 

I could forget my woes in stinging him ; 

And if, before this day, his little soul 

Had not in bondage wept itself away, 

Rome and Jugurtha should have triumph'd o'er him. 

Look here, thou caitiff, if thou canst, and see 

The fragments of Jugurtha ; view him wrapt 

In the last shred he borrow'd from Numidia ; 

'Tis cover'd with the dust of Rome ; behold 

His rooted gaze upon the chains he wears, 

And on the channels they have wrought upon him ; 

Then look around upon his dungeon walls, 

And view yon scanty mat, on which his frame 

He flings, and rushes from his thoughts to sleep. 

Sleep ! 
I'll sleep no more, until I sleep for ever : 
When I slept last, I heard Adherbal scream. 
I'll sleep no more I I'll think until I die : 
My eyes shall pore upon my miseries, 
Until my miseries shall be no more. 
Yet wherefore did he scream 1 Why, I have heard 
His living scream, — it was not half so frightful. 
Whence comes the difference 1 When the man was living, 
Why, I did gaze upon his couch of torments 
With placid vengeance, and each anguish'd cry 
Gave me stern satisfaction ; now he's dead, 
And his lips move not ; — yet his voice's image 
Flash'd such a dreadful darkness o'er my soul, 
I would not mount Numidia's throne again, 
Did ev'ry night bring such a scream as that. 



140 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

SECTION LIV. 
wolfort — Hubert Beaumont. 

Wolfort. Would you leave me, 

Without a farewell, Hubert? Fly a friend 
Unwearied in his study to advance you ? 
What have 1 e'er possess'd which was not yours ? 
Or rather did not court you to command it ? 
Who ever yet arrived to any grace, 
Reward, or trust from me, but his approaches 
Were by your fair reports of him preferr'd ? 
And what is more, I made myself your servant, 
In making you the master of those secrets 
Which not the rack of conscience could draw from me, 
Nor I, when I ask'd mercy, trust my prayers with ; 
Yet, after these assurances of love, 
These ties and bonds of friendship, to forsake me ! 
Forsake me as an enemy ! Come, you must 
Give me a reason. 

Hubert. Sir, and so I will ; 

If I may do't in private, and you hear it. 

Wol. You have your will ; sit down, 
And use the liberty of our first friendship. 

Hub. Friendship ? When you prov'd traitor first, that 
vanish'd ; 
Nor do I owe you any thought but hate. 
I know my flight hath forfeited my head ; 
And, so I may make you first understand 
What a strange monster you have made yourself, 
I welcome it. 

Wol. To me this is strange language. 

Hub. To you ? why, what are you ? 

Wol. Your prince and master, 

The earl of Flanders. 

Hub. By a proper title ? 

Rais'd to't by cunning, circumvention, force, 
Blood, and proscriptions ! 

Wol. And in all this wisdom, 

Had I not reason, when, by Gerrard's plots, 
I should have first been called to a strict account, 
How, and which way I had consumed that mass 
Of money, as they term it, in the war ; 
Who underhand had by his ministers 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 141 

Detracted my great actions, made my faith 
And loyalty suspected ; in which failing 
He sought my life by practice ? 

Hub, With what forehead 

Do you speak this to me, who (as I know't) 
Must and will say, 'tis false ? 

WoL My guard there ! 

Hub. Sir, 

You bade me sit, and promis'd you would hear, 
Which 1 now say you shall ! Not a sound more ! 
For I, that am contemner of mine own, 
Am master of your life ! then, here's a sword 
Between you and all aids, sir. Though you blind 
The credulous beast, the multitude, you pass not 
These gross untruths on me. 

WoL How ? gross untruths ? 

Hub. Ay, and it is favourable language ; 
They had been in a mean man lies, and foul ones. 

WoL You take strange license. 

Hub. Yes ; were not those rumours, 
Of being called unto your answer, spread 
By your own followers ? and weak Gerrard wrought 
But by your cunning practice, to believe 
That you were dangerous ; yet not to be 
Punish'd by any former course of law, 
But first to be made sure, and have your crimes 
Laid open after? which your quaint train taking, 
You fled unto the camp, and there crav'd humbly 
Protection for your innocent life, and that, 
Since you had 'scap'd the fury of the war, 
You might not fall by treason ; and for proof, 
You did not for your own ends make this danger, 
Some that had been before by you suborn'd, 
Came forth and took their oaths they had been hir'd 
By Gerrard to your murder. This once heard, 
And easily believed, th' enraged soldier, 
Seeing no further than the outward man, 
Snatch'd hastily his arms, ran to the court, 
Kill'd all that made resistance, cut in pieces 
Such as were servants, or thought friends to Gerrard, 
Vowing the like to him. 

WoL Will you yet end ? 

Hub. Which he foreseeing, with his son, the earl ? 
Forsook the city ; and by secret ways, 
(As you give out, and we would gladly have it) 
N 2 



142 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Escap'd their fury ; though 'tis more than fear'd 
They fell among the rest. Nor stand you there, 
To let us only mourn the impious means 
By which you got it ; but your cruelties since 
So far transcend your former bloody ills, 
As, if compar'd, they only would appear 
Essays of mischief. Do not stop your ears ; 
More are behind yet ! 

WoL Oh, repeat them not : 

'Tis death to hear them nam'd ! 

Hub. You should have thought, 

That such would be your punishment when you did them ! 
A prince in nothing but your princely faults, 
And boundless rapines ! 

WoL No more, I beseech you ! 

Hub. Who was the lord of house or land, that stood 
Within the prospect of your covetous eye ? 

WoL You are in this to me a greater tyrant, 
Than e'er I was to any. 

Hub. Think you that I had reason now to leave you, 
When you are grown so justly odious, 
That e'en my stay here, with your grace and favour, 
Makes my life irksome ? Here, securely take it ! 
And do me but this fruit of all your friendship, 
That I may die by you, and not your hangman. 

WoL Oh, Hubert, these your words and reasons have 
As well drawn drops of blood from my griev'd heart, 
As these tears from mine eyes : Despise them not ! 
By all that's sacred, I am serious, Hubert. 
You now have made me sensible what furies, 
Whips, hangmen, and tormentors, a bad man 
Does ever bear about him ! Let the good 
That you this day have done, be ever number'd 
The first of your best actions. 
I will resign what T usurp, or have 
Unjustly forc'd. The days I have to live 
Are too, too few, to make them satisfaction 
With any penitence : Yet I vow to practise 
All of a man. 

Hub. Oh, that your heart and tongue 

Did not now differ 1 

WoL By my griefs they do not ! 

Take the good pains to search them out ; 'tis worth it. 
You have made clean a leper ; trust me, you have, 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 143 

And made me once more fit for the society, 
I hope, of good men. 

Hub. Sir, do not abuse 

My aptness to believe. 

Wol. Suspect not you 

A faith that's built upon so true a sorrow : 
Make your own safeties ; ask thee all the ties 
Humanity can give ! 

And I will give you this help to't ; I have 
Of late received certain intelligence, 
That some of them are in or about Bruges 
To be found out ; which I did then interpret 
The cause of that town's standing out against me : 
But now am glad, it may direct your purpose 
Of giving them their safety, and me peace. 

Hub. Be constant to your goodness, and you have it. 



SECTION LV. 

LATIMER LOVEL Ben JoHSOfl. 

Lovel. Valour 's the greatest virtue, and the safety 
Of all mankind, the object of it is danger. 
A certain mean 'twixt fear and confidence : 
No inconsiderate rashness, or vain appetite 
Of false encountering formidable things; 
But a true science of distinguishing 
What's good or evil. It springs out of reason, 
And tends to perfect honesty, the scope 
Is always honour, and the public good : 
It is no valour for a private cause. 

Latimer. No ! not for reputation ? 

Lov. That's man's idol, 

Set up 'gainst God, the maker of all laws, 
Who hath commanded us we should not kill : 
And yet we say, we must for reputation. 
What honest man can either fear his own, 
Or else will hurt another's reputation : 
Fear to do base unworthy things, is valour ; 
The office of a man 
That's truly valiant, is considerable, 
Three ways : the first is in respect of matter, 
Which still is danger ; in respect of form, 



144 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Wherein he must preserve his dignity ; 
And in the end, which must be ever lawful. 

Lett. But men, when they are heated, and in passion, 
Cannot consider. 

Lov. Then it is not valour. 

I never thought an angry person valiant : 
Virtue is never aided by a vice. 
What need is there of anger and of tumult, 
When reason can do the same things, or more 1 

Lat. O yes, 'tis profitable, and of use ; 
It makes us fierce, and fit to undertake. 

Lov. Why, so will drink make us both bold and rash, 
Or phrenzy if you will : do these make valiant ? 
They are poor helps, and virtue needs them not. 
No man is valianter by being angry, 
But he that could not valiant be without : 
So that it comes not in the aid of virtue, 
But in the stead of it. 
And 'tis an odious kind of remedy, 
To owe our health to a disease. 

Lat. How does that differ from true valour ? 

Lov. Thus. 
In the efficient, or that which makes it ; 
For it proceeds from passion, not from judgment : 
Then brute beasts have it, wicked persons ; there 
It diners in the subject ; in the form, 
'Tis carried rashly, and with violence ; 
Then in the end, where it respects not truth, 
Or public honesty, but mere revenge. 
Now confident, and undertaking valour, 
Sways from the true, two other ways, as being 
A trust in our own faculties, skill or strength, 
And not the right, or conscience of the cause, 
That works it : then in the end, which is the victory, 
And not the honour. 

Lat. But the ignorant valour, 
That knows not why it undertakes, but doth it 
To escape the infamy merely 

Lov. Is worst of all : 

That valour lies in the eyes o' the lookers on ; 
And is call'd valour with a witness. 

Lat. Right. 

Lov. The things true valour's exercised about, 
Are poverty, restraint, captivity, 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 145 

Banishment, loss of children, long disease : 

The least is death. Here valour is beheld, 

Properly seen ; about these it is present : 

Not trivial things, which but require our confidence, 

And yet to those we must object ourselves, 

Only for honesty ; if any other 

Respects be mixt, we quite put out her light. 

And as all knowledge, when it is removed, 

Or separate from justice is called craft, 

Rather than wisdom ; so a mind affecting, 

Or undertaking dangers, for ambition, 

Or any self-pretext, not for the public, 

Deserves the name of daring, not of valour, 

And over-daring is as great a vice, 

As over-fearing. 

Lot. Yes, and often greater. 

Lov. But as it is not the mere punishment, 
But cause that makes a martyr, so it is not 
Fighting, or dying, but the manner of it. 
Renders a man himself. A valiant man 
Ought not to undergo, or tempt a danger, 
But worthily, and by selected ways : 
He undertakes with reason, not by chance. 
His valour is the salt to his other virtues, 
They are all unseason'd without it. The attendants, 
Or the concomitants of it, are his patience, 
His magnanimity, his confidence, 
His constancy, security, and quiet ; 
He can assure himself against all rumour, 
Despairs of nothing, laughs at contumelies, 
As knowing himself advanced in a height 
Where injury cannot reach him, nor aspersion 
Touch him with soil ! 



SECTION LVI. 

EXTRACT FROM AN ADDRESS BEFORE THE HISTORICAL 

society Rev. C. Wolfe. 

While Hannibal was raging in the bowels of Italy, and 
observing the moment when Rome was vulnerable, she 
looked to her statesmen in her hour of peril ; but statesmen 
were the pupils of their own experience : she thought the 
Fabii and Marcelli could form a temporary check to his 



146 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

advance or his ravages ; but Scipio looked into the ages 
that were past, and saw the prefiguration of Rome's deliv- 
erance. We are told that the muse of history descended 
upon the meditating hero ; that she showed him the harbour 
of Syracuse, and told him a tale of former days : " That 
in the dead of night, when Syracuse was plunged in uni- 
versal mourning and consternation, when the overwhelming 
navy of Carthage was riding in her harbour, and the next 
day's light, threatened to conduct the enemy into her cita- 
del, — with a policy unique and sublime, she clandestinely 
dismissed her garrison to the coast of Africa, and when the 
senate of Carthage expected the gates of Syracuse to open, 
they heard that the warriors of Syracuse were beneath her 
own walls." The hero applied the glorious suggestion : — 
he embarked his legions — he sailed to Africa ; he left the 
host of Carthage in Italy, and obeyed the instructions of 
history. And did she instruct him aright? — You will read 
your answer in the tears of Hannibal when he threw his last 
look upon the delightful plains of Italy. 

Such was the benefit of historical retrospect in ancient 
days ; but its value is now incalculably augmented ; for, of 
the sciences, history is that which is always advancing. 
Mathematics and philosophical improvements may be long 
at a stand ; poetry and the arts are often stationary, often 
retrograde ; but every year, every month, every day is con- 
tributing its knowledge to the grand magazine of historical 
experience. Look at what the last years have added, and 
behold how history gathers as she rolls along-— what new 
attractions she holds forth to mankind. But, with what an 
accession of beauty she invites the Briton to the study of 
her charms, while she recounts the acts and heroism and 
glories of her country ! 

Let the energies of England be extinct; let her armies 
be overwhelmed ; — let her navy become the spoil of the en- 
emy and the ocean ; — let the national credit become a by- 
word ; let the last dregs of an exhausted treasury be wrung 
from her cofTers ; — let the constitution crumble ; — let the 
enemy ride in her capital, and her frame fall asunder in 
political dissolution ; — then stand with history on one hand, 
and oratory on the other, over the grave in which her ener- 
gies lie entombed, — and cry aloud ! Tell her that there was 
a time when the soul of a Briton would not bend before 
the congregated world : — tell her that she once called her 
sons around her and wrung the charter of her liberties from 
a reluctant despot's hand :— tell her that she was the parent 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 147 

of the band of brothers that fought on Crispin's day : — tell 
her that Spain sent forth a nation upon the seas against her, 
and that England and the elements overwhelmed it : — tell 
her that six centuries were toiling to erect the edifice of her 
constitution, and that at length the temple arose : — tell her 
that there are plains in every quarter of the globe where 
victory has buried the bones of her heroes, — 

" That the spirits of her fathers 
Shall start from ev'ry wave, 
For the deck it was their field of fame, 
And ocean was their grave :" — 

When the earth opened upon Lisbon and sw r allowed her in 
the womb, — tell her that she stretched her hand across the 
seas and raised her from the bowels of the earth into the 
world again : — tell her that when the enemy of human lib- 
erty arose, the freedom of the whole world took refuge with 
her ; that, with an arm of victory, alone and unaided, she 
flung back the usurper, till recreant Europe blushed with 
shame ; — tell her all this ; and I say that the power of leth- 
argy must be omnipotent, if she does not shake the dust 
from her neck, and rise in flames of annihilating ven- 
geance on her destroyer. 

For the reader of history, every hero has fought — every 
philosopher has instructed — every legislator has organized ; 
every blessing was bestowed — every calamity was inflicted 
for his information. In public, he is in the audit of his 
counsellois, and enters the senate with Pericles, Solon, and 
Lycurgus about him : in private, he walks among the tombs 
of the mighty dead ; and every tomb is an oracle. But 
who is he that should pronounce this awakening call ? who 
is he whose voice should be the trumpet and war-cry to an 
enslaved and degraded nation 1 — It should be the voice of 
such an one as he who stood over slumbering Greece, and 
uttered a note at which Athens started from her indolence, 
Thebes roused from her lethargies, and Macedon trembled. 



SECTION LVII. 

ORLANDO ADAM SJlCtlcspCCLre. 

Orlando. Who's there 1 

Adam. What ! my young master ! — O, my gentle master, 
O, my kind master, O you memory 



148 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Of old Sir Rowland ! why, what brings you here ? 

Why are you virtuous ? Why do people love you ? 

And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant? 

Why would you be so fond to overcome 

The bony priser of the humorous duke ? 

Your praise is come too swiftly home before you. 

Know you not, master, to some kind of men 

Their graces serve them but as enemies 1 

No more do yours ; your virtues, gentle master, 

Are sanctified and holy traitors to you. 

O, what a world is this, when what is comely 

Envenoms him that bears it ? 

Orla. Why, what's the matter ? 

Adam, O unhappy youth, 
Come not within these doors : within this roof 
The enemy of all your graces lives : 
Your brother — (no, no brother ; yet the son — 
Yet not the son ; — I will not call him son — 
Of him I was about to call his father,) 
Hath heard your praises ; and this night he means 
To burn the lodging where you use to lie, 
And you within it ; if he fail of that, 
He will have other means to cut you off: 
I overheard him and riis practices. 
This is no place, this house is but a butchery ; 
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it. 

Orla. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go ? 

Adam. No matter whither, so you come not here. 

Orla. What, would thou have me go and beg my food '? 
Or, with a base and boisterous sword, enforce 
A thievish living on the common road ? 
This I must do, or know not what to do : 
Yet this I will not do, do how I can ; 
I rather will subject me to the malice 
Of a diverted blood, and bloody brother. 

Adam. But do not so : I have five hundred crowns, 
The thrifty hire I saved under your father, 
Which I did store to be my foster-nurse, 
When service should in my old limbs lie lame, 
And unregarded age in corners thrown ; 
Take that ; and he that doth the ravens feed, 
Yea, providentially caters for the sparrow, 
Be comfort to my age ! Here is the gold ; 
All this I give you : Let me be your servant ; 
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty : 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 149 

For in my youth I never did apply 
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood ; 
Nor did ever with unbashful forehead woo 
The means of weakness and debility ; 
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, 
Frosty, but kindly : let me go with you ; 
I'll do the service of a younger man 
In all your business and necessities. 

Orla. O good old man ; how well in thee appears 
The constant service of the antique world, 
When service sweats for duty, not for meed ! 
Thou art not for the fashion of these times, 
Where none will sweat, but for promotion ; 
And having that, do choke their service up 
Even with the having ; it is not so with thee. 
But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree, 
That cannot so much as a blossom yield, 
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry : 
But come thy ways, we'll go along together ; 
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent, 
We'll light upon some settled low content. 

Adam. Master, go on ; and I will follow thee, 
To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty. 
From seventeen years till now almost fourscore 
Here lived I, but now live here no more. 
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek ; 
But at fourscore it is too late a week : 
Yet fortune cannot recompense me better, 
Than to die well, and not my master's debtor. 



SECTION LVIIL 

DOGBERRY VERGES THE WATCH Ibid. 

Dogberry. Are you good men and true ? 

Verges. Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer 
condemnation. 

Dog. Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, 
if they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen 
for the prince's watch. 

Ver. Well, give them their charge, neighbour Dog- 
berry. 

O 



350 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Dog. First, who think you the most desartless man to 
be constable. 

1 Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal ; for 
they can write and read. 

Dog. Come hither, neighbour Seacoal; you are blessed 
with a good name : to be a well-favoured man is the gift of 
fortune ; but to write and read comes by nature. 

2 Wat. Both which, master constable 

Dog. You have ; I knew it would be your answer. 
Well, for your favour, sir, why, make no boast of it ; and 
for your writing and reading, let that appear when there is 
no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the 
most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch ; 
therefore bear you the lantern. This is your charge : You 
shall comprehend all vagrom men ; you are to bid any man 
stand in the prince's name. 

2 Wat. How if he will not stand ? 

Dog. Why then, take no note of him, but let him go ; 
and presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank 
your stars you are rid of a knave. 

Ver. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none 
of the prince's subjects. 

Dog. True, and they are to meddle with none but the 
prince's subjects : — You shall also make no noise in the 
streets; for, for the watch to babble and talk, is most toler- 
able, and not to be endured. 

2 Wat. We will rather sleep than talk; we know what 
belongs to a watch. 

Dog. Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet 
watchman ; for I cannot see how sleeping should offend : 
only, have a care that your bills be not stolen. Well, you 
are to call at the ale-houses, and bid them that are drunk 
get them to bed. 

2 Wat. How if they will not 1 

Dog. Why then, let them alone till they are sober ; if 
they make you not then the better answer, you may say, 
they are not the men you took them for. 

2 Wat. W T ell, sir. 

Dog. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by vir- 
tue of your office, to be no true man ; and, for such kind 
of men, the less you meddle or make with those, why, the 
more is for your honesty. 

2 Wat. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay 
hands on him 1 

Dog. Truly, by your office you may ; but, I think, they 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 151 

that touch pitch will be defiled : the most peaceable way for 
you, if you do take a thief, is, to let him show himself what 
he is, and steal out of your company. 

Ver. You have always been called a merciful man, 
partner. 

Dog. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will ; much 
more a man who hath any honesty in him. 

Ver. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call 
to the nurse, and bid her still it. 

2 Wat. How, if the nurse be asleep, and will not hear 
us? 

Dog. Why then, depart in peace, and let the child wake 
her with crying : for the ewe that will not hear her lamb 
when it baas, will never answer a calf when he bleats. 

Ver. ? Tis very true. 

Dog. This is the end of the charge. You, constable, 
are to present the prince's own person ; if you meet the 
prince in the night, you may stay him. 

Ver. Nay, by'rlady that, I think, he cannot. 

Dog. Five shillings to one on't, with any man that 
knows the statutes, he may stay him : marry, not without 
the prince be willing: for, indeed, the watch ought to of- 
fend no man ; and it is an offence to stay a man against his 
will. 

Ver. By'rlady, I think, it be so. 

Dog. Ha, ha, ha ! Well, masters, good night : an there 
be any matter of weight chances, call up me : keep your 
fellows' counsels and your own, and good night. Come, 
neighbour. 



SECTION LIX. 

EXTRACT FROM RINGAN GILHAIZE John Gait. 

Moderation ! — You, Mr. Ren wick, counsel moderation 
— you recommend the door of peace to be still kept open — 
you doubt if the scriptures warrant us to undertake re- 
venge ; and you hope that our forbearance may work to 
repentance among our enemies. Mr. Renwick, you have 
hitherto been a preacher, not a sufferer; with you the re- 
sistance to Charles Stuart's government has been a thing 
of doctrine — of no more than doctrine, Mr. Renwick — 
with us it has been a consideration of facts. Judge ye 
therefore between yourself and us, — I say, between your- 



152 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

self and us ; for I ask no other judge to decide, whether 
we are not, by all the laws of God and man, justified in 
avowing that we mean to do as we are done by. 

And, Mr. Renwick, you will call to mind, that in this 
sore controversy, the cause of debate came not from us. 
We were peaceable christians, enjoying the shade of the 
vine and the fig-tree of the gospel, planted by the care and 
cherished by the blood of our forefathers, protected by the 
laws, and gladdened in our protection by the oaths and the 
covenants which the king had sworn to maintain. The 
Presbyterian freedom of worship was our property, — we 
were in possession and enjoyment, no man could call our 
right to it in question, — the king had vowed, as a condition 
before he was allowed to receive the crown, that he would 
preserve it. Yet, for more than twenty years, there has 
been a most cruel, fraudulent, and outrageous endeavour 
instituted, and carried on, to deprive us of that freedom 
and birthright. We were asking no new thing from gov- 
ernment, we were taking no step to disturb government, 
we were in peace with all men, when government, with the 
principles of a robber and the cruelty of a tyrant, demand- 
ed of us to surrender those immunities of conscience which 
our fathers had earned and defended ; to deny the gospel 
as it is written in the evangelists, and to accept the com- 
mentary of Charles Stuart, a man who has had no respect 
to the most solemn oaths, and of James Sharp, the apostate 
of St. Andrews, whose crimes provoked a deed, that but 
for their crimson hue, no man could have doubted to call a 
most foul murder. The king, and his crew, Mr. Renwick, 
are, to the indubitable judgment of all just men, the causers 
and the aggressors in the existing difference between his 
subjects and him. In so far, therefore, if blame there be, 
it lieth not with us nor in our cause. 

But, sir, not content with attempting to wrest from us 
our inherited freedom of religious worship, Charles Stuart 
and his abettors have pursued the courageous constancy 
with which we have defended the same, with more animos- 
ity than they ever did any crime. 1 speak not to you, Mr. 
Renwick, of your own outcast condition, — perhaps you de- 
light in the perils of martyrdom ; I speak not to those around 
us, who, in their persons, their substance, and their fami- 
lies, have endured the torture, poverty, and irremediable 
dishonour, — they may be meek and hallowed men, willing 
to endure. But 1 call to mind what 1 am and was myself. 
I think of my quiet home, — it is all ashes, I remember my 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 153 

brave first-born, — he was slain at Bothwell-brigg. Why 
need I speak of my honest brother ; the waves of the 
ocean, commissioned by our persecutors, have triumphed 
over him in the cold seas of the Orkneys; and as for my 
wife, what was she to you ? Ye cannot be greatly disturbed 
that she is in her grave. No, ye are quiet, calm, and 
prudent persons ; it would be a most indiscreet thing of 
you, you who have suffered no wrongs yourselves, to stir on 
her account; and then how unreasonable I should be, 
were I to speak of two fair and innocent maidens. It is 
weak of me to weep, though they were my daughters. O 
men and christians, brothers, fathers ! but ye are content 
to bear with such wrongs, and I alone of all here may go 
to the gates of the cities, and try to discover which of the 
martyred heads mouldering there belongs to a son or a 
friend. Nor is it of any account whether the bones of those 
who were so dear to us, be exposed with the remains of mal- 
efactors, or laid in the sacred grave. To the dead all places 
are alike ; and to the slave what signifies who is master. 
Let us therefore forget the past, — let us keep open the door 
of reconciliation, — smother all the wrongs we have endured, 
and kiss the proud foot of the trampler. We have our 
lives, we have been spared ; the merciless bloodhounds have 
not yet reached us. Let us therefore be humble and thank- 
ful, and cry to Charles Stuart, O king, live forever ! — for 
he has but cast us into a fiery furnace and a lion's den. 

In truth, friends, Mr. Ren wick is quite right. This feel- 
ing of indignation against our oppressors is a most impru- 
dent thing. If we desire to enjoy our own contempt, and 
to deserve the derision of men, and to merit the abhorrence 
of Heaven, let us yield ourselves to all that Charles Stuart 
and his sect require. We can do nothing better, nothing so 
meritorious, nothing by which we can so reasonably hope for 
punishment here and condemnation hereafter. But if there 
is one man at this meeting, — 1 am speaking not of shapes 
and forms, but of feelings, — if there is one here that feels 
as men were wont to feel, he will draw his sword, and 
say with me, Wo to the house of Stuart ! Wo to the op- 
pressors ! And may a just God look with favour on our 
cause. 

O 2 



154 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

SECTION LX. 

selim — edward Thomson. 

Edward. Whence is it those barbarians here again, 
Those base, those murdering cowards, dare be seen ? 
What new accursed attempt is now on foot? 
What new assassination ? — Start not, dervise, 
Tinge not thy caitiff cheek with redd'ning honour. 
What, thou ! — Dost thou pretend to feel reproach ? 
Art thou not of a shameless race of people, 
Harden'd in arts of cruelty and blood, 
Perfidious all ? — Yes, have you not profan'd 
The faith of nations, broke the holy tie 
That binds the families of earth together, 
That gives even foes to meet with generous trust, 
And teaches war security ? — Your prince, 
Your prince has done it. And you should hereafter 
Be hunted from your dens like savage beasts; 
Be crush'd like serpents! 

Selim. If, king of England, in this weighty matter, 
On which depends the weal and life of thousands, 
You love and seek the truth, let reason judge, 
Cool, steady, quiet, and dispassioned reason. 
For never yet, since the proud selfish race 
Of men began to jar, did passion give, 
Nor ever can it give a right decision. 

Edw. Reason has judg'd, and passion shall chastise, 
Shall make you howl, ye cowards of the east! — 
What can be clearer ? — This vile prince of Jaffa ! 
This infamy of princes ! sends a ruffian 
(By his own hand and seal commission'd, sends him) 
To treat of peace : and, as I read his letters, 
The villain stabs me. This, if this wants light, 
There is no certainty in human reason ; 
If this not shines with all-convincing truth, 
Yon sun is dark. 

Sel. The impious wretch who did assail thy life, 
O king of England, was indeed an envoy 
Sent by the prince of Jaffa : this we own ; 
But then he was an execrable bigot, 
Who, for such horrid purposes, had crept 
Into the cheated sultan's court and service, 
As by the traitor's papers we have learn'd. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 155 

Edw. False, utterly false ! the lie of guilty fear ! 
You all are bigots, robbers, ruffians all ! 
It is the very genius of your nation. 
Vindictive rage, the thirst of blood consumes you : 
You live by rapine, thence your empire rose ; 
And your religion is a mere pretence 
To rob and murder in the name of heaven. 

Sel. Be patient, prince, be more humane and just. 
You have your virtues, have your vices too ; 
And we have ours. The liberal hand of nature 
Has not created us, nor any nation 
Beneath the blessed canopy of heaven, 
Of such malignant clay, but each may boast 
Their native virtues, and their Maker's bounty. 
You call us bigots. O ! canst thou with that 
Reproach us, christian prince ? What brought thee hither ? 
What else but bigotry? What dost thou here ? 
What else but persecute? The truth is great, 
Greater than thou, and I will give it way ; 
Even thou thyself, in all thy rage, wilt hear it. 
From their remotest source, these holy wars, 
What have they breathed but bigotry and rapine 7 
Did not the first crusaders, when their zeal 
Should have shone out the purest, did they not, 
Led by the frantic hermit who began 
The murderous trade, through their own countries spread 
The woes their vice could not reserve for ours ? 
Though this exceeds the purport of my message, 
Yet must I thus, insulted in my country, 
Insulted in religion, bid thee think, 
O king of England, on the different conduct 
Of saracens and christians ; when beneath 
Your pious Godfrey, in the first crusade, 
Jerusalem was sack'd ; and when beneath 
Our generous Saladin, it was retaken. 
O hideous scene ! my soul within me shrinks, 
Abhorrent, from the view ! Twelve thousand wretches, 
Receiv'd to mercy, void of all defence, 
Trusting to plighted faith, to purchas'd safety — 
Behold these naked wretches, in cold blood, 
Men, women, children — murder'd ! basely murdei'd !— ** 
The holy temple, which you came to rescue, 
Regorges with the barbarous profanation ; — 
The streets run dismal torrents : Drown'd in blood, 
The very soldier sickens at his carnage. 



156 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Couldst thou, O sun ! behold the blasting sight, 
And lift again thy sacred eye on mortals 1 — 
A ruthless race ! who can do this, can do it, 
To please the general Father of mankind ! — 
While nobler Saladin- 

Edw. Away ! be gone ! 

With thee, vile dervise, what have I to do ? 
1 lose my hour of vengeance, I debase me, 
To hold this talk with thee. 

Sel While truth and reason 

Speak from my tongue, vile dervise as I am, 
Yet am I greater than the highest monarch, 
Who, from blind fury, grows the slave of passion. 
Besides, I come to justify a prince, 
Howe'er in other qualities below thee, 
In love of goodness, truth, humanity, 
And honour, sir, thy equal — yes, thy equal. 

Edw. What ! how ! compare me with a base assassin ! 
A matchless villain ! — Ha ! presumptuous dervise ! 
Thou gnaw'st thy quivering lip — a smother'd passion 
Shakes through thy frame. What villany is that 
Thou dar'st not utter? — Wert thou not a wretch, 
Protected by thy habit, this right hand 
Should crush thee into atoms. Hence ! away ! 
Go tell thy master that I hold him base, 
Beyond the power of words to speak his baseness ! 
A coward ! an assassinating coward ! 
And when I once have dragg'd him from his city — 
Which I will straightway do — I then will make him, 
In all the gall and bitterness of guilt, 
Grinding the vengeful steel betwixt his teeth, 
Will make the traitor own it. 

Sel. Never ! 

Edw. Ha ! 

Sel Thou canst not, haughty monarch : — I am he ! 
I am this Selim ! this insulted Selim ! 
Yet clear as day, and will confound thy passion. 

Edw. Thou Selim ? 

Sel. I. 

Edw. Was ever guilt so bold ? 

Sel. Did ever innocence descend to fear ? 

Edw. This bears some show of honour. Wilt thou then 
Decide it by the sword 1 

Sel I will do more— • 

Edw. How more ? 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 157 

SeL Decide it by superior reason. 

Edw. No weak evasions. 

SeL If I not convince thee, 

If by thyself I am not of this crime 
Acquitted, then I grant thee thy demand. 
Nay, more ; yon yielded city shall be thine : 
For know, hot prince, I should disdain a throne 
I could not fill with honour. 



SECTION LXI. 

KING OF THE SANDWICH ISLES MR. PEEL MR. CROKER 

interpreter W. S. Landor. 

King. I receive with satisfaction the royal sons of my 
brother, the king of England, whose noble nature and high 
exploits have filled the whole space between him and me, 
and are become as familiar to my people as fish and bread- 
fruit. 

Peel. Sire, we dispose indeed of his family and of his 
subjects universally ; but we are not the sons of our most 
gracious king, illustrious as are our families and the titles 
with which we are invested. 

Crok. Why tell the fool that we are not his sons ? 

King. You are then the high priest ? 

Peel. Not exactly that neither, sire ; but I make him 
do and say what I order. 

- Kg. to Crok. And pray, mighty lord, by what appella- 
tion am I to address your celestiality ? 

Crok. 1 am principal of the admirality. 

Kg. to Int. What is admirality? 

Int. All the ships and captains and admirals. 

Peel His majesty seems faint. 

Crok. He stares at me like a stuck pig. 

Kg. to Int. I cannot, with my ideas of propriety, fall 
down before him, but any thing short of that. Would he 
permit me to take his hand 1 

Int. I cannot answer for him. Time was, he would 
have been ready to take mine — with a dollar in it. 

King. The other high lord governs the king's family 
and people ; but this governs the king and the air and the 
waters and the world. Dog, dost grin ? 



158 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Int. I will tell your majesty another time how mis- 
taken you are. 

King. High and mighty, land-and-sea-and-sky lords, in 
order to render you the honours due to your rank and dig- 
nity, I, a stranger to you 

Peel. Sire, we are come only to announce to your maj- 
esty the pleasure his majesty the king of England will ex- 
perience on receiving your majesty at his court. 

Kg. to Int. Is it the custom of the land to interrupt a 
person who is speaking ? 

Int. It is the custom all over Europe, excepting Turkey, 
where manners are far more decorous. 

Kg. to Int. How do they do in their parliament ? 

Int. The same thing perpetually, unless the orator has 
something to give them. In that case there is no other in- 
terruption than applause ; and the wit of a college-scout, a 
mail-coach-driver, or a quack's assistant upon a cart, is the 
finest in the world. 

King. Man, that is not the Sandwich tongue: I do not 
understand half the words. [To Peel] Tell your king, 
0,king's-family-and-people-feeder, that I forerun his wishes, 
and will be present at his court to-morrow. 

Peel Dear Croker, do inform him, for upon my soul I 
have not the face, that he must pull off that barbarous dress 
of his, and order a court one. 

Crok. What have I to do with plucking and trussing 
the creature ? Tell him yourself; it lies within your of- 
fice. 

Peel Sire, I am sorry to announce to your majesty 
that your majesty cannot be received in any but a court-* 
dress. 

King. Oh ! I know it, I know it well : I have brought 
with me fifty court-dresses. 

Peel Permit me to explain, sire : I mean to say, the 
court-dress of the court of England. 

King. I have not one. 

Peel I will send a tailor to your majesty. 

Kg. to Int. What is that ? 

Int. One who makes court-dresses. 

Kg. to Int. In truth, no king was ever received with 
more hospitality, kindness, and distinction, than I am. All 
the first dignitaries of the state attend me. The courtoai- 
lor holds, I suppose, the third rank in the kingdom. 

Int. There are some between, not many. He however 
is next to the king himself, or rather his copartner, in con* 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 159 

ferring distinctions. Without him the greatest and highest 
would be where I am ; and many a fellow escapes a kick 
by means of his silk breeches. 

Kg. to Int. No wonder. The English laws, as captains 
have told me, make you pay for the damage you do. But 
perhaps I have misunderstood you : perhaps the silk is a 
charm too against anger and thunder. 

Crok. What a bore ! I am out of all patience. 

King. Pray, how many dresses has your king ? 

Peel. Sire, I cannot exactly tell your majesty how many 
his majesty has, not having the honour to preside over his 
wardrobe ; but of course on gala-days he always wears a 
new one. 

King. Gala-days I suppose are the days when he wres- 
tles and tears his clothes. For in this cold climate I can well 
imagine the richer may wrestle drest. But your king must 
have many suits. I am sensible of his affability and liber- 
ality, and shall be quite contented with such distinction as 
it may please his majesty to confer on me ; but among men 
of equal rank, unequal as the power may be, treaties may 
be formed, compacts settled — 

Crok. A slice of Sandwich, I trust, may come to us 
thereby ; ay, Bob ! 

King. What dost mean, word-eater-and-voider ? 

Int. Your majesty's fine language does not supply me 
with the words, and if I made an adequate sign of them, I 
might be hanged. 

King. My language is the richest in the world, and the 
very best. I have two or three words for one thing. 

Int. Sire, we have twenty. Roguery , for instance. We 
box the compass and come quite round to honesty and hon- 
our ; but some writers (not many indeed) make a distinc- 
tion, and put an s to the latter. 

King. We kings are very nice upon higher points, but 
not upon these. 

Crok. Your majesty was saying something of treaties 
and compacts. If I can serve you majesty in the interpre- 
tation of your royal wishes, you may command me. 

King. I have an interpreter here I can trust better. 

Crok. to Int. He never said that, you villain ! He has 
good manners. 

King. I request of that minister's celestiality, that he 
will not light his match where there is no gun. What faces 
these Europeans have ! they can fire them when they please. 
The great spirit has, in his wisdom, appointed all things 



160 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

for the countries in which they exist. What a blessing 
in these cold climates, where the water is turned into dust 
and rock, and the feathers that fall from heaven's birds and 
winged geniuses are colder than sea-shells, that the higher 
and nobler pari at least of the inhabitants can conjure up 
into their eyes, and between their cheeks, such a quantity 
of flame and heat. 

Peel. Was that for us ? 

Int. No, sir. 

Peel. If your Sandwichian majesty is graciously dis- 
posed to enter into any treaty with his Britannic majesty, 
my royal master, 1 am empowered by his aforesaid, to wit, 
his Britannic majesty, to receive, consider, and lay it before 
his said majesty, for his majesty's further consideration, by 
and with the advice of his privy council. 

King. The very thing for his privy council. His maj- 
esty sticks a new and brighter and loftier plume in my 
hair, at every word of your discourse with me. On the 
court-day I would decorate his majesty with a noble dress, 
suitable to his dignity, with my own hands, declaring upon 
my royal word that I have worn the same dress twenty 
times on the greatest ceremonies, of religion and state. 
Now I request from his majesty, I being a less powerful 
king, a dress which his majesty shall have worn only twice 
or thrice on public festivities, and once only in dalliance 
with some favourite ; and that his royal hands shall invest 
me with nothing more of it, than that part which the most 
active man in the world could not leap into by himself, and 
which no other nations than the most civilized and ingenious 
have discovered the means of putting on : this being the 
principal, if not the only distinction between the polished 
and the rude. After the surmounting of such a difficulty 
in science, I do not wonder that you can count the stars, 
and measure their sizes and distances, which 1 think I could 
do myself, if I had leisure and they would wait for me. 

Crok. Does the rascal quizz us ? he looks in earnest. 

Peel. He really is serious, and expects an answer. 
Sire, I will communicate to his majesty the heads of your 
majesty's communication, and I entertain no doubt that his 
majesty will most graciously pay that attention which is 
due to so ancient and faithful an ally, and which is conser- 
vative of the harmony that happily exists between the two 
nations. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 161 



SECTION LXII. 

EXTRACT FROM REV. W. E. CHANNING's ELECTION 
DISCOURSE, 1830. 

Free institutions contribute in no small degree to free- 
dom and force of mind, by teaching the essential equality 
of men, and their right and duty to govern themselves ; and 
I cannot but consider the superiority of an elective govern- 
ment, as consisting very much in the testimony which it 
bears to these ennobling truths. It has often been said, that 
a good code of laws, and not the form of government, is 
what determines a people's happiness. 

I know that tyranny does evil by invading men's out- 
ward interests, by making property and life insecure, by 
robbing the labourer to pamper the noble and king. But its 
worst influence is within. Its chief curse is, that it breaks 
and tames the spirit, sinks man in his own eyes, takes away 
vigour of thought and action, substitutes for conscience an 
outward rule, makes him abject, cowardly, a parasite and 
cringing slave. This is the curse of tyranny. It wars 
with the soul, and thus it wars with God. We read in the- 
ologians and poets of angels fighting against the Creator, 
of battles in heaven. But God's throne in heaven is unas- 
sailable. The only war against God is against his image, 
against the divine principle in the soul, and this is waged by 
tyranny in all its forms. We here see the chief curse of 
tyranny ; and this should teach us that civil freedom is a 
blessing, chiefly as it reverences the human soul, and min- 
isters to its growth and power. 

Without this inward, spiritual freedom, outward liberty is 
of little worth. What boots it,, that I am crushed by no 
foreign yoke, if, through ignorance and vice, through sel- 
fishness and fear, I want the command of my own mind ? 
The worst tyrants are those which establish themselves in 
our own breasts. The man who wants force of principle 
and purpose, is a slave, however free the air he breathes. 

We speak of the patriot as sacrificing himself to the pub- 
lic weal. Do we mean, that he sacrifices what is most prop- 
erly himself, the principle of piety and virtue ? Do we not 
feel, that, however great may be the good, which, through 
his sufferings, accrues to the state, a greater and purer 
glory redounds to himself, and that the most precious fruit 
P 



162 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

of his disinterested services, is the strength of resolution 
and philanthropy which is accumulated in his own soul ? 

Our great error as a people is, that we put an idolatrous 
trust in our free institutions, as if these, by some magic 
power, must secure our rights, however we enslave our- 
selves to evil passions. We need to learn that the forms of 
liberty are not its essence ; that whilst the letter of a free 
institution is preserved, its spirit may be lost ; that even its 
wisest provisions and most guarded powers may be made 
weapons of tyranny. In a country called free, a majority 
may become a faction, and a proscribed minority may be 
insulted, robbed, and oppressed. Under elective govern- 
ments, a dominant party may become as truly an usurper, 
and as treasonably conspire against the state, as an individ- 
ual who forces his way by arms to the throne. 

I know that it is supposed, that political wisdom can so 
form institutions, as to extract from them freedom, notwith- 
standing a people's sins. The chief expedient for this 
purpose has been, to balance, as it is called, men's passions 
and interests against each other, to use one man's useful- 
ness as a check against his neighbour's, to produce peace by 
the counteraction and equilibrium of hostile forces. This 
whole theory I distrust. The vices can by no management 
or skilful poising be made to do the work of virtue. Our 
own history has already proved this. Our government was 
founded on the doctrine of checks and balances; and what 
does experience teach us ? It teaches, what the principles 
of our nature might have taught, that, whenever the coun- 
try is divided into two great parties, the dominant party will 
possess itself of both branches of the legislature, and of 
the different departments of the state, and will move towards 
its objects with as little check, and with as determined pur- 
pose, as if all powers were concentrated in a single body. 
There is no substitute for virtue. Free institutions secure 
rights, only when secured by, and when invigorating that 
spiritual freedom, that moral power and elevation, which I 
have set before you as the supreme good of our nature. 

According to these views, the first duty of a statesman is 
to build up the moral energy of a people. This is their first 
interest ; and he who weakens it, inflicts an injury which 
no talent can repair ; nor should any splendour of services, 
or any momentary success, avert from him the infamy 
which he has earned. Let public men learn to think more 
reverently of their function. Let them feel that they are 
touching more vital interests than property. Let them fear 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 163 

nothing so much as to sap the moral convictions of a people, 
by unrighteous legislation, or a selfish policy. Let them 
cultivate in themselves the spirit of religion and virtue, as 
the first requisite to a public station. Let no apparent 
advantage to the community, any more than to themselves, 
seduce them to the infraction of any moral law. Let them 
put faith in virtue as the strength of nations. Let them 
not be disheartened by temporary ill success in upright ex- 
ertion. Let them remember, that while they and their 
cotemporaries live but for a day, the state is to live for ages, 
and that time, the unerring arbiter, will vindicate the wis- 
dom as well as the magnanimity of the public man, who, 
confiding in the power of truth, justice, and philanthropy, 
asserts their claims, and reverently follows their monitions, 
amidst general disloyalty and corruption. 



SECTION LXIII. 

EXTRACT FROM THE SAME. 

I feel, as I doubt not many feel, that the great distinc- 
tion of a nation, the only one worth possessing, and which 
brings after it all other blessings, is the prevalence of pure 
principle among the citizens. I wish to belong to a state, 
in the character and institutions of which I may find a 
spring of improvement which I can speak of with an hon- 
est pride, in whose records I may meet great and hon- 
oured names, and which is making the world its debtor by 
its discoveries of truth, and by an example of virtuous free- 
dom. O save me from a country which worships wealth, 
and cares not for true glory : in which intrigue be,ars rule ; 
in which patriotism borrows its zeal from the prospect of 
office ; in which hungry sycophants throng with supplication 
all the departments of state ; in which public men bear the 
brand of private vice, and the seat of government is a noise- 
some sink of private licentiousness and public corruption. 
Tell me not of the honour of belonging to a free country. 
I ask, does our liberty bear generous fruits ? Does it exalt 
us in manly spirit, in public virtue, above countries trodden 
under foot by despotism ? Tell me not of the extent of our 
territory. I care not how large it is, if it multiply degenerate 
men. Speak not of our prosperity. Better be one of a poor 
people, plain in manners, revering God and respecting them- 
selves, than belong to a rich country which knows no high- 



164 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

\ 

er good than riches. Earnestly do I desire for this country, 
that, instead of copying Europe with an undiscerning ser- 
vility, it may have a character of its own, corresponding to 
the freedom and equality of our institutions. One Europe 
is enough. One Paris is enough. How much to be desired 
is it, that separated as we are from the eastern continent 
by an ocean, we should be still more widely separated by 
simplicity of manners, by domestic purity, by inward piety,, 
by reverence for human nature, by moral independence, by 
withstanding that subjection to fashion, and that debilitating 
sensuality, which characterize the most civilized portions 
of the old world. 

Of this country I may say with peculiar emphasis, that 
its happiness is bound up in its virtue. On this our union 
can alone stand firm. Our union is not like that of other 
nations, confirmed by the habits of ages, and riveted by 
force. It is a recent, and still more, a voluntary union. 
It is idle to talk of force as binding us together. Nothing 
can retain a member of this confederacy, when resolved on 
separation. The only bonds that can permanently unite 
us, are moral ones. That there are repulsive powers — prin- 
ciples of discord, in these States, we all feel. The attrac- 
tion which is to counteract them, is only to be found in a 
calm wisdom, controlling the passions, in a spirit of equity 
and regard to the common weal, and in virtuous patriotism, 
clinging to union as the only pledge of freedom and peace. 
The union is threatened by sectional jealousies, and collis- 
ions of local interests, which can be reconciled only by a 
magnanimous liberality. It is endangered by the prostitu- 
tion of executive patronage, through which the public treas- 
ury is turned into a fountain of corruption, and by the lust 
for power, which perpetually convulses the country for the 
sake of Allowing office into new hands ; and the only rem- 
edy for these evils, is to be found in the moral indignation 
of the community, in a pure, lofty spirit, which will over- 
whelm with infamy this selfish ambition. 



SECTION LXIV. 

WILLIAM WALLACE EDWARD I W. S. Lcmdor, 



Edward. Whom seest thou here ? 
Wallace. The king of England. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 165 

Edw. And thou abasest not thy head before the majesty 
of the sceptre. 

Wal. I do. 

Edw. I marked it not. 

Wal. God beheld it when I did it ; and he knoweth, as 
dost thou, king Edward, how devoutly in my heart's strength, 
I fought for it. 

Edw. Robber ! for what sceptre ? who commissioned 
thee? 

Wal. My country. 

Edw. Thou liest : there is no country where there is 
no king. 

Wal Sir, it were unbecoming to ask in this palace, 
why there is no king in my country. 

Edw. To spare thy modesty then, I will inform thee — 
because the kingdom is mine. Thou hast rebelled against 
me : thou hast presumed even to carry arms against both 
of those nobles, Bruce and Cummin, who contended for the 
Scottish throne, and with somewhat indeed of lawyers' like- 
lihood. 

Wal. They placed the Scottish throne under the Eng- 
lish. 

Edw. Audacious churl ! is it not meet ? 

Wal. In Scotland we think otherwise. 

Edw. Rebels do, subverters of order, low ignorant knaves, 
without any stake in the country. It has pleased God to 
bless my arms ; what further manifestation of our just claims 
demandest thou ? Silence becomes thee. 

Wal. Where God is named. What is now to the right 
bank of a river, is to the left when we have crossed it and 
look around. 

Edw. Thou wouldst be witty truly ! Who was wittiest, 
thou or T, when thy companion delivered thee into my 
hands ? 

Wal. Unworthy companions are not the peculiar curse 
of private men. Sir, I have contended with you face to 
face ; but would not here. Your glory eclipses mine, if 
this be glory. 

Edw. So thou wouldst place thyself on a level with 
princes. 

Wal. Willingly, if they attacked my country ; and 
above them. 

Edw. Recollectest thou the colloquy that Bruce conde- 
scended to hold with thee across the river ? 
P 2 



166 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER, 

Wal. I do, sir. Why would not he, being your soldier, 
and fighting loyally against his native land, pass the water, 
and exterminate an army so beaten and dispersed ? Why 
not finish the business at once ? 

Edw. He wished to persuade thee, loose reviler, that 
thy resistance was useless. 

Wal. He might have made himself heard better, if he 
had come across. 

Edw. No trifling ; no arguing with me ; no remarks 
here, caitiff! J did not counsel the accusations and malig- 
nant taunts of Bruce. 

Wal. Sir, I do not bear them in mind. 

Edw. No ! 

Wal. Indeed I neither do nor would. 

Edw. Dull wretch ! I should never forget such. I can 
make allowances ; lama king. 

Wal. Few have a right to punish, all to pardon. 

Edw. I perceive thou hast at last some glimmering of 
shame ; and adversity makes thee very christianlike. 

Wal. Adversity then, in exercising her power, loses 
her name and features. King Edward, thou hast raised me 
among men. Without thy banners and cross-bows in array 
against me, I had sunk into utter forgetfulness. Thanks 
to thee for placing me, eternally, where no strength of mine 
could otherwise have borne me ! Thanks to thee for bath- 
ing my spirit in deep thoughts, in refreshing calm, in sacred 
stillness ! This, O king, is the bath for knighthood : after 
this it may feast, and hear bold and sweet voices, and mount 
to its repose. 

Edw. Return to Scotland ; bring me Bruce's head back, 
and rule the kingdom as viceroy. 

Wal. I would rather make him rue his words against 
me, and hear him. 

Edw. Thou shalt. 

Wal. Believe me, sir, you would repent of your per- 
mission. 

Edw. Go, and try me — do not hesitate — I see thou art 
half inclined. I may never make the same offer again. 

Wal. I will not go. 

Edw. Weak wavering man ! hath imprisonment in one 
day or two wrought such a change in thee ? 

Wal. Slavery soon does it ; but I am, and will ever be, 
unchanged. 

Edw. It was not well, nor by my order, that thou wert 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 167 

dragged along the road, barefooted and bareheaded, while it 
snowed throughout all the journey. 

Wal. The worst was this. Children and women, fa- 
thers and sons, came running down the hills, some sinking 
knee-deep in the incrusted snow, others tripping lightly 
over it, to celebrate the nativity of our blessed Lord. They 
entreated, and the good priest likewise, that I might be led 
forth into the church, and might kneel down amidst them. 
"Off," cried the guard, "would ye plead for Wallace the 
traitor?" I saw them tremble, for it was treason in them, 
and then came my grief upon me, and bore hard. They 
lifted up their eyes to heaven ; and it gave me strength. 

Edw. Thou shalt not, I declare to thee, march back in 
such plight. 

Wal. I will not, I declare to thee, march a traitor. 

Edw. Right! right! lean trust thee — more than half 
already. Bruce is the traitor ; the worst of the two ; he 
raises the country against me : go, encompass him, entrap 
him, quell him. Thou shalt do it : let me have thy plan. 

Wal. Sir, I have none worthy of your royal participa- 
tion. 

Edw. Thou formest the best possible in one moment, 
and executest them in another. 

Wal. Perad venture the only one I could devise and ex- 
ecute, in this contingency, might not please you. 

Edw. It would, beyond measure, I promise thee : set 
about it instantly : I must enjoy it before I rest. Tell it 
me, tell it me. 

Wal. Must I ? 

Edw. Thou must ; I am faint with waiting. 

Wal. 1 would go unto him bare-headed : I would kiss 
his hand. 

Edw. Nothing can be better — wary, provident, deep. 

Wal. I would lead him before the altar, if my entreaty 
could do it — I would adjure him by the Lord of hosts, the 
preserver of Scotland 

Edw. No harm in that. 

Wal. To pity his country,- 



Edw. Ay ; it would vex him to reflect on what a state 
it is in at present. 

Wal. And to proclaim a traitor to his king and God 
every Scotchman who abandons or despairs of her. 

Edw. What is this ? why would it hurt him ? I com- 
prehend not half the stratagem. How ! thy limbs swell 
huger, thy stature higher — thou scornest, thou scoffest, thou 



168 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

defiest me ! — a prisoner ! a bondman ! Guards away with 
him. A traitor's doom awaits thee. 

Wal. Because I would not be one. 

Edw. Laughter too ! and lewd mockery ! Carry him 
back to prison : cord him ! pinion him ! cart him ! 

Wal. Thou followest me to death, less willingly, and 
slower. 



SECTION LXV. 

SPEECH OF KING LOUIS, FROM QUENTIN DURWARD. 

Sir Walter Scott. 

Nobles of France and of Burgundy ! Knights of the 
Holy Spirit and of the Golden Fleece ! since a king must 
plead his cause as an accused person, he cannot desire 
nobler judges than the flower of nobleness, and muster and 
pride of chivalry. Our fair cousin of Burgundy hath but 
darkened the dispute between us, in so far as his courtesy 
has declined to state it in precise terms. I, who have no 
cause for observing such delicacy, nay, whose condition 
permits me not to do so, crave leave to speak more precisely. 
It is to us, my lords, — to us, his liege lord, his kinsman, 
his ally, that unhappy circumstances, perverting our cousin's 
clear judgment and better nature, have induced him to ap- 
ply the hateful charges of seducing his vassals from their 
allegiance, stirring up the people of Liege to revolt, and 
stimulating the outlawed William de la Marck to commit a 
most cruel and sacrilegious murder. 

Nobles of France and Burgundy, I might truly appeal to 
the circumstances in which I now stand, as being in them- 
selves a complete contradiction of such an accusation ; for 
is it to be supposed, that having the sense of a rational be- 
ing left me, I should have thrown myself unreservedly into 
the power of the Duke of Burgundy, while I was practising 
treachery against him such as could not fail to be discov- 
ered, and which, being discovered, must place me as I now 
stand, in the power of a justly exasperated prince ? The 
folly of one who should seat himself quietly down to repose 
on a mine, after he had lighted the match which was to 
cause instant explosion, would have been wisdom compared 
to mine. I have no doubt, that, amongst the perpetrators 
of those horrible treasons at Schonwaldt, villains have. been 
busy with my name ; but am I to be answerable, who have 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 169 

given them no right to use it? If two silly women, dis- 
gusted on account of some romantic cause of displeasure, 
sought refuge at my court, does it follow that they did so 
by my direction ? — It will be found, when inquired into, 
that, since honour and chivalry forbade my sending them 
back prisoners to the court of Burgundy, — which I think, 
gentlemen, no one who wears the collar of these orders 
would suggest, — that I came as nearly as possible to the 
same point, by placing them in the hands of the venerable 
father in God, who is now a saint in heaven. 

In the hands, I say, of a member of my own family, and 
still more closely united with that of Burgundy, whose sit- 
uation, exalted condition in the church, and, alas ! whose 
numerous virtues, qualified him to be the protector of these 
unhappy wanderers for a little while, and the mediator be- 
twixt them and their liege lord. I say, therefore, the only 
circumstances which seem in my brother of Burgundy's 
hasty view of this subject, to argue unworthy suspicions 
against me, are such as can be explained on the fairest and 
most honourable motives ; and I say, moreover, that no one 
particle of credible evidence can be brought to support the 
injurious charges which have induced my brother to alter 
his friendly looks towards one who came to him in full con- 
fidence of friendship, have caused him to turn his festive 
hall into a court of justice, and his hospitable apartments 
into a prison, 



SECTION LXVI. 

REMBRANDT DUTCH TRADER FRANK Blackwood' S 

Magazine. 

Dutch Trader. Good morrow, friend. I wish to have 
a picture of yours to leave to my wife, before I go to sail 
the salt seas again. 

Rembrandt. Would you have your own face painted ? 

Tra. My face has seen both fair and foul, in its time, 
and belike it may not do for a canvass, for I am no fresh 
water pippin-cheek. 

Rem. Bear a good heart. Your face is of the kind I 
like. There is no room for tricks of the pencil upon too 
smooth a skin. 

Tra. By this hand, I know nothing of these things ; 
but my wife shall have a picture. 



170 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Rem. A large hat would serve to shadow your eyes ; 
and there should be no light till we come down to the point 
of your nose, which would be the only sharp in the picture. 
Nothing but brownness and darkness every where else. 
Pray you, sit down here, and try on this great hat. 

Tra. Nay, by your leave, I will look at these pictures 
on the wall first. What is this? 

Rem. It is a Turk whom I have seen in the streets of 
Amsterdam. I like to paint a good beard ; and you see 
how angrily this man's beard is twisted. 

Tra. A stout Pagan and a good fighter, 1 warrant you. 
I feel as if I could fetch him a cut over the crown ; for my 
ship was once near being run down by an Algerine. 

Rem. Look at the next. 'Tis the inside of a farmer's 
kitchen. 

Tra. Nay, I could have told you that myself; for those 
pails of milk might be drunk; and there is an old grandam 
twirling her spindle. When next I go to live at my broth- 
er Lucas's farm, I shall persuade him to buy this picture. 
It shows the fat and plenteous life which he lives when I 
am sailing the salt seas. 

Rem. Here is a sea-piece. 

Tra. Why, that is good also ; but this sail should have 
been lashed to the binnacle ; — for, d'ye see, when a vessel 
is spooning against a swell, she pitches, and it is necessary 
to 

Rem. You are right ; I must have it altered. How 
does this landscape please you ? 

Tra. Why, it is a good flat country ; but exhibits none 
of those great rocks which I have seen in foreign parts. I 
have seen burning mountains, which would have made the 
brush drop from your hand. I have sailed round the world, 
and seen the waves rising to the height of Haerlem steeple, 
and nothing but cannibals on shore to make signals to. 

Rem. Well — and which of the pictures will you have ? 
you shall have your choice of them for forty ducats. 

Tra. Nay, now you are joking. Who will give you 
forty ducats ? When at dinner with the burgo-master lately, 
I heard a collector putting prices on your works. He said, 
if we would wait, your market would certainly fall, for you 
had too many on hand. 

Rem. My market shall not fall. I will see this collec- 
tor at the bottom of the ocean first. But come, now, let us 
be reasonable together, I will paint your portrait for thirty. 
Take your seat, 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 171 

Tra> Not so fast. My wife must be conferred with, and, 
if she approves, perhaps I may come back. Meanwhile, 
good morning. [Exit. 

Rem. Hang these picture-dealing babblers. How shall 
I be revenged on them ? My pictures are as good as the 
oldest extant, and if I were dead, every piece would sell 
for as much gold as would cover it. But I see what must 
be done. Come hither, Frank, and receive a commission. 
Go straight to the joiner ; s, and order him to prepare for my 
funeral. 

Frank. What is the meaning of this ? Are your wits 
turned ? 

Rem. My wits are turned towards money-making. I 
must counterfeit myself dead, to raise the price of my works > 
which will be valued as jewels, when there is no expecta- 
tion of any more. 

Frank. Now I perceive your drift. Was there ever 
such a contrivance ! You mean to conceal yourself, and 
have a mock funeral ? 

Rem. Yes ; and when my walls are unloaded I shall ap- 
pear again. So that after the picture dealers have been 
brought to canonize me for a dead painter, and when they 
have fairly ventured out their praise and their money, they 
shall see me come and lay my hands upon both. 

Frank. How will it be possible for me to cry sufficiently, 
when there is no real death ? 

Rem. Make good use of the present occasion to perfect 
yourself in your part, for you may one day have to repeat it. 



SECTION LXVIL 

SPEECH OF THE EARL OF MOIRA. 

I consider you, my countrymen, as the representatives 
of Ireland on the present occasion. The people of Ireland, 
speaking of you, will say, these are men met to celebrate 
a festival in which we are essentially interested : let us see 
what are their sentiments ; let us determine from their ex- 
pressions what we are to do ; they are nearest to the source 
of government and authentic information ; they form a 
body uncontrolled by ministerial influence, unseduced by 
power, and unavved by fear ; it is from their opinion (I am 
speaking the language of the people of Ireland) we will 



172 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

take the tone of our political sentiments. I will then say, 
let this meeting communicate the tone of its sentiments to 
the people of Ireland. Although we can come to no reso 
lution, yet the sentiments we shall express will be immedi- 
ately felt throughout every part of Ireland. I know that 
the words I utter will carry with them the force and weight 
which the sanction of this meeting can alone impart. 

It is, therefore, as the organ of this meeting, that I would 
say to the people of Ireland — regard the policy of those 
whom I will not at present call our enemies, but who cer- 
tainly have endeavoured to throw a cloud over the prosper- 
ity of the country. Reflect that the advantages, which they 
have uniformly held out, have been founded upon the prin- 
ciples of sowing the seeds of dissension among nations. I 
will say to the people of Ireland, from what has passed, dread 
the future. I will say, what have any classes of you in 
Ireland to hope from the French ? Is it your property you 
wish to preserve ? Look to the example of Holland ; and 
see how that nation has preserved its property by an alliance 
with the French! Is it independence you court ? Look to 
the example of unhappy Switzerland : see to what a state 
of servile abasement that once manly territory has fallen, 
under France ! Is it to the establishment of Catholicism 
that your hopes are directed? The conduct of the first 
consul in subverting the power and authority of the pope, 
and cultivating the friendship of the mussulmen in Egypt 
under a boast of that subversion, proves the fallacy of such 
a reliance ! Is it civil liberty you require ? Look to France 
itself crouched under despotism, and groaning beneath a 
system of slavery, beyond what ever disgraced and insulted 
any nation ! Is it possible, then, that any heart nurtured 
in the blessed air of Ireland, can look to French protection 
for happiness ? Is it possible there can be one head so or- 
ganized as not to see from the evidence of facts for the last 
few years, that the liberty, which the French offer, is but 
another term for abjection and slavery ? I am not sounding 
the trumpet of war — There is no man who more sincerely 
deprecates its calamities than I do, soldier as I am, and 
ready to serve my country — Yet if necessity should force 
us to the conflict, I trust that we shall prove to the audacious 
foe, that British veins still glow with the same blood which 
vivified the spirit of our ancestors ; and that British bosoms 
still burn with the same patriotic ardour which actuated 
them in every former period of their annals. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 173 

Whatever may await us, let us meet the peril with in- 
trepid firmness. Danger is a giant to those who fear, but 
a pigmy to those who know not what fear is ; and confident 
I am, that the spirit of the country will be roused to dread- 
ful vengeance against those who shall dare to provoke it. 
The spirit of Englishmen and of Irishmen will manifest, 
will teach the enemy, that he has mistaken their character, 
and from their disposition to peace, falsely inferred their 
aversion to war. Let the views of France be what they 
may, she will find herself greatly deceived in her expecta- 
tions with regard to assistance or co-operation in any part 
of the united kingdom ; her views will never be seconded 
by any but a desperate and impotent rabble. 



SECTION LXVIII. 
prince — cesario Barry Cornwall. 

Prince. Listen, Cesario, 

And you shall hear a curious history. 
Keep Diego in your mind the while, and think 
That he's the hero of it. Last night a man 
Came mask'd unto a rich lord's house, (here in 
Palermo) — Do you hear how Etna mutters ? 
I fear there'll be irruptions shortly. 

Cesario. Yes, 

It sends a terrible sound indeed, my lord. 

Pri. This man petitioned for his life. He said 
That he had sworn to act a horrid deed, 
And came to make disclosure. The great lord 
(His was the life in danger) promised full 
Forgiveness — but you do not listen. 

Ces. Oh ! 

Pardon me, sir, most carefully. 

Pri. He said 

A youth on whom the lord had lavished wealth, 
And kindness and good precept, had forgot 
His better tutoring, and lent deaf ears 
To those divinest whispers which the soul 
Breathes to prevent our erring. He resolved 
To kill his benefactor : that was bad. 

Ces. Oh ! he deserved 

a 



174 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



Pri. We'll talk of that hereafter. 

Well — this bad man whose mind was spotted with 
The foulest sin i' the world, ingratitude, 
Had sworn to murder this his friend. 

Ces. My lord ! 

Pri. I see it shocks you : yes, for the sake of gold 
He would have slain his old and faithful friend ; 
Have spurned the few grey locks that time had left, 
And stopped the current of his reverend blood, 
Which could not flow much longer. 

Ces. Are you sure ? 

Pri. The plan was this : they were to bind him, for 
To slay him here were dangerous, and transport 
His wretched limbs to some most lonely place. 

Ces. Where — where was this ? 

Pri. I'll tell you, for I once 

Was housed there through a storm. A castle stands 
(Almost a ruin now) on the sea-coast 
Where it looks tow'rd Calabria ; as 'tis said, 
A murder once was done there, and e'er since 
It has been desolate ; 'tis bleak, and stands 
High on a rock, whose base was cavern'd out 
By the wild seas ages ago. The winds 
Moan and make music through its halls, and there 
The mountain-loving eagle builds his home. 
But all's a waste : for miles and miles around 
There's not a cot. 

Ces. Is't near the — eastward foot 

Of Etna ? 

Pri. Yes : oh ! then you know the spot. 
Now, dear Cesario, could'st thou think a man, 
Setting aside all ties, could do a deed 
Of blackness there ? Why 'tis within the reach 
Of Etna, and some thirty years ago, 
(The last eruption,) when the lava rivers 
Took their course toward that point, this dwelling was 
In danger. I myself stood near the place, 
And saw the bright fires stream along, when they 
Crumbled the chestnut forests and dark pines 
And branching oaks to dust. The thunder spoke, 
The rebel waves stood up and lashed the rocks, 
And poured their stormy cries through every cave. 
Each element was in motion then : the earth 
Staggered and spouted fire : the winds — the seas — 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 175 

And the fierce rains were heard : and here and there 
The lightnings flew along their jagged paths 
Like messengers of evil. 

Ces. Oh ! no more. 

Pri. Fancy, Cesario, in this desolate house, 
How, with a solitary lamp perhaps 
Above you, how this aged wretch would look. 
All his white hair blood-drench'd, and his eye with 
The horrid stare of dead mortality, 
And death's own marble smile that changes not : 
His hanging head, and useless neck — his old 
Affectionate heart that beat so fondly, now 
Like a stilled instrument. I could not kill 
A dog that loved me : could you ? 

Ces. No, sir — no. 

Pri. Why, you seem frightened. 
Ces. 'Tis a fearful picture. 

Pri. Yet might it have been true. 
Ces. We'll hope not. 

Pri. Hope ! — 

That hope is past. How will the Spaniard look, 
Think you, Cesario, when the question comes 
Home to his heart ? In truth he could not look 
More pale than you do now. Cesario ! 
The eye of God has been upon him. 
Ces. Yes ; 

I hope 

Pri. Beware. 
Ces. My lord ! 

Pri. Beware how you 

Curse him, for he is loaded heavily. 
Sin and fierce wishes plague him, and the world 
Will stamp its malediction on his head, 
And God and man disown him. 

Ces. Oh ! no more. 

No more, my dearest lord ; behold me here, 
Here at your feet — a wretch indeed, but now 
Won quite from crime. Spare me. 

Pri. Rise. I forgive 

Your wickedness to me : but men like you 
(Base, common, bribed stabbers) must not roam 
About the world so freely. 

Ces. Oh ! that now 

You could but see my heart. 



176 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Pri. I would not see 

Your bosom's black inhabitant. No more : 
But listen to me again — nay, speak not, sir. 
This is a different tale. Cesario ! 
When first you came to Sicily, you were 
A little child : your noble father, worn 
By toil and long misfortune, scarce had time 
To beg protection for you ere he died. 
Since then, if in your memory I have failed 
In kindness tow'rd you, or good counselling, 
Reproach me. 

Ces. You have been most kind, too kind. 

Pri. Once, in a painful illness when none else 
Would tread your infectious chamber, (think on that) 
I, though your prince 

Ces. In pity ! 

Pri. Hear me speak. 

1 gave that healing medicine to your lips, 
Which, wanting, you had died. I tended you; 
And was your nurse through many a sultry night : 
For you were quite abandoned. 'Twas not well, 
I own, to risk my safety, for I was 
A crowned prince : yet, oh ! 'tis not for you 
To blame. Well I you recovered^ and could use 
Your sword again : you tried it Against my bloody 
(My nephew then,) and I forgave it. 

Ces. That 

Was in the heat of quarrel. 

Pri. I have said 

That I forgave it. Then a most mean wish 
(You wished my wealth) possessed you. I could never 2 
I own it, have guessed at that. 

Ces. My lord ! 

My father I oh ! once more believe me. I 
Do not deserve you should : but if you can 

Once again credit me 

1 will not pain your love : 

Nay more, I will deserve it. 1 can die 

Now, for my mind has grown within this hour 
To firmness : yet, I now could wish to live, 
To show you what I am. 

Pri. Cesario ! 

The world will blame me, but Til try you still : 
You cannot have the heart (for you have one) 
Again to hurt me. Once 2 imperial Caesar 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 177 

Upon the young deluded Cinna laid 
His absolute pardon : 'twas a weight that he 
Could ne'er shake off. Cesario, thus from 
My soul I do forgive you. 



SECTION LXIX. 

EXTRACT FROM A DISCOURSE IN COMMEMORATION OF THE 

settlement of salem, sept. 18, 1828. ...Joseph Story. 

While we review our past history, and recollect what 
we have been, and are, the duties of this day were but ill 
performed, if we stopped here ; if turning from the past, 
and entering on the third century of our political existence, 
we gave no heed to the voice of experience, and dwelt not 
with thoughts of earnest, busy solicitude upon the future. 
What is to be the destiny of this republic ? In proposing 
this question, I drop all thought of New-England. She has 
bound herself to the fate of the union. May she be true 
to it, now, and for ever ; true to it, because true to herself, 
true to her own principles, true to the cause of religion and 
liberty throughout the world. I speak then of our common 
country, of that blessed mother, that has nursed us in her 
lap, and led us up to manhood. What is her destiny ? 
Whither does the finger of fate point ? Is the career, on 
which we have entered to be bright with ages of onward 
and upward glory ? Or is our doom already recorded in 
the past history of the earth, in the past lessons of the de- 
cline and fall of other republics ? If we are to nourish 
with a vigorous growth, it must be (I think) by cherishing 
principles, institutions, pursuits, and morals, such as planted 
and have hitherto supported New-England. If we are to 
fall, may she still possess the melancholy consolation of the 
Trojan patriot; 

" Sat patriae Priamoque datum ; si Pergama dextra 
Defendi possent, etiam hac defensa fuissent." 

The old world has already revealed to us in its unsealed 
books the beginning and end of all its own marvellous 
struggles in the cause of liberty. Greece, lovely Greece, 
" the land of scholars, and the nurse of arms," where sister 
republics in fair processions chanted the praises of liberty 
Q 2 



178 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

and the gods ; where, and what is she ? For two thousand 
years the oppressor has bound her to the earth. Her arts 
are no more. The last sad relics of her temples are but 
the barracks of a ruthless soldiery ; the fragments of her 
columns and her palaces are in the dust, yet beautiful in 
ruin. She fell not, when the mighty were upon her. Her 
sons were united at Thermopylae and Marathon ; and the 
tide of her triumph rolled back upon the Hellespont. She 
was conquered by her own factions. She fell by the hands 
of her own people. The man of Macedonia did not the 
work of her destruction. It was already done by her own cor- 
ruptions, banishments, and dissensions. Rome, republican 
Rome, whose eagles glanced in the rising and setting sun, 
where, and what is she? The eternal city yet remains, 
proud even in her desolation, noble in her decline, venera- 
ble in the majesty of religion, and calm as in the compo- 
sure of death. 

And where are the republics of modern times, which 
clustered round immortal Italy f Venice and Genoa exist 
but in name. The Alps, indeed, look down upon the brave 
and peaceful Swiss in their native fastnesses ; but the guar- 
anty of their freedom is in their weakness, and not in their 
strength. The mountains are not easily crossed, and the 
vallies are not easily retained. 

We stand the latest, and, if we fail, probably the last ex- 
periment of self-government by the people. We have be- 
gun it under circumstances of the most auspicious nature. 
We are in the vigour of youth. Our growth has never been 
checked by the oppressions of tyranny. Our constitutions 
have never been enfeebled by the vices or luxuries of the 
old world. Such as we are, we have been from the begin- 
ning; simple, hardy, intelligent, accustomed to self-govern- 
ment and self-respect. The Atlantic rolls between us and 
any formidable foe. Within our own territory, stretching 
through many degrees of latitude and longitude, we have 
the choice of many products, and many means of indepen- 
dence. The government is mild. The press is free. Re- 
ligion is free. Knowledge reaches, or may reach, every 
home. What fairer prospect of success could be presented ? 
What means more adequate to accomplish the sublime end 1 
What more is necessary, than for the people to preserve 
what they themselves have created ? 

Can it be, that America, under such circumstances, can 
betray herself? That she is to be added to that catalogue 
of republics, the inscription upon whose ruins is, " They 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 179 

were, but they are not." Forbid it, my countrymen ; for- 
bid it, Heaven. 

I call upon you, fathers, by the shades of your ancestors, 
by the dear ashes which repose in this precious soil, by all 
you are, and all you hope to be ; resist every project of 
disunion, resist every encroachment upon your liberties, 
resist every attempt to fetter your consciences, or smother 
your public schools, or extinguish your system of public in- 
struction. 

I call upon you, young men, to remember whose sons 
you are ; whose inheritance you possess. Life can never 
be too short, which brings nothing but disgrace and op- 
pression. Death never comes too soon, if necessary in de- 
fence of the liberties of your country. 

I call upon you, old men, for your counsels, and your 
prayers, and your benedictions. May not your grey hairs 
go down in sorrow to the grave with the recollection, that 
you have lived in vain. May not your last sun sink in the 
west upon a nation of slaves. 

No — I read in the destiny of my country far better hopes, 
far brighter visions. We, who are now assembled here, 
must soon be gathered to the congregation of other days. 
The time of our departure is at hand, to make way for our 
children upon the theatre of life. May God speed them 
and theirs. May he, who at the distance of another cen- 
tury shall stand here to celebrate this day, still look round 
upon a free, happy, and virtuous people. May he have 
reason to exult as we do. May he, with all the enthusiasm 
of truth, as well as of poetry, exclaim, that here is still his 
country, 

" Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free ; 
Patient of toils ; serene amidst alarms ; 
Inflexible in faith ; invincible in arms." 



SECTION LXX. 

dr. johnson — richard savage Blackwood's Magazine. 

Savage. Mr. Johnson, I must insist upon your going 
home to your lodgings. 

Johnson. No, sir ; I had as lief walk with you, and chat 
with you. 

Sav. Your complaisance carries you too far. Necessity 
has accustomed me to pass the night in this manner. But 



180 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

you have a lodging, and need not encounter these hard- 
ships. 

Johns. A man, sir, takes a pleasure in tasting the diver- 
sities of life, when he knows it is his option whether he shall 
do so or not. 

Sav. Your frame is robust. You will catch no harm, 
at any rate, from your present whim. 

Johns. Why, sir, I love occasionally to aberrate from 
routine. It awakens and varies my ideas. The streets are 
almost silent just now. These large and opaque masses of 
building have nothing in their exterior to set the mind a-go- 
ing ; but they affect us, sir, because we know them to be 
pregnant with the workings of the human heart, from the 
cellar to the garret. There is no time when mankind so 
distinctly feel their happiness or misery, as before retiring 
to sleep. Action being then suspended, they have time to 
estimate its results, and to calculate what remains to be en- 
joyed or suffered. 

Sav. 1 have some verses in my pocket which I com- 
posed this morning, and wrote on the back of a play-bill 
with a pen which I procured in a grocer's shop. If these 
lamps were not so dim, you should hear them read. 

Johns. The ancients said of love, that he had been 
cradled on rocks, and suckled by tigers. 

Sav. What of that ? 

Johns. It is astonishing under what unfavourable cir- 
cumstances poetical enthusiasm, which is one of the finest 
movements of the soul, will sometimes thrive and fructify. 
I do not much wonder at Cervantes having written Don 
Quixote in prison ; for it would appear that the assembling 
of humorous conceptions is a harsh and hardy operation of 
the mind, and not liable to interruption from slight inconve- 
niences. We find humour among men, whom the rigours 
of their situation have entirely blunted to tenderness. Take, 
for instance, sailors and highwaymen. 

Sav. What do you suppose to be the hardiest of all fac- 
ulties. 

Johns. That of ratiocination, sir. But it requires to be 
supported. When I lived, as at one time I was obliged to 
do, upon four pence a day, I experienced frequent defalca- 
tion of mental activity. 

Sav. Starvation may enfeeble the faculties, but in me 
it leaves the passions as active as ever. It leaves me still 
the same proud and uncontrollable Richard Savage. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 181 

Johns. Nature has probably ordered things in such a 
manner, that our personal energies shall be the last to suffer 
from bodily exhaustion. After dinner, sir, I generally feel 
inclined to meditation. Reading is then less agreeable to 
me, because of the trouble of holding the book to my eyes. 

Sav. When do you dine ? 

Johns. Generally at three. 

Sav. Heigho ! you are a happy man. You will one day 
do credit to literature, when poor Savage 

Johns. Nay, sir, do not speak thus. 1 am but a harm- 
less drudge, a word-hunter — little worthy of being envied. 
He that deludes his imagination with golden dreams of the 
dignity of literature, need only enter the garret of the lexi- 
cographer, and see him at his diurnal task, to be convinced 
that learning is honoured only in its results, and not in the 
person of the possessor. 

Sav. Have you visited my Lord Chesterfield lately ? 

Johns. Why, no, sir. I found that I was kept waiting 
for hours in the anti-chamber, while his lordship was en- 
gaged with such persons as Cibber. 

Sav. Stupid scoundrel ! Fellows like that get on well 
wherever they go. 

Johns. And what if they do, sir ? They are more gain- 
ly, sir, than we, because they are meaner. The man who 
approaches people like Chesterfield must not have any hu- 
mours of his own. Now, sir, I am not one of those who 
can clear their foreheads, and look pleasant whenever occa- 
sion requires, I love to be as sour as I please. Mea vir- 
tute me involvo. 

Sav. But surely Lord Chesterfield ought to make some 
distinction between 

Johns. Chesterfield, I believe, does as we ourselves would 
do in his situation. He knows what it is to be a courtier, 
and he expects to be courted in his turn, for whatever he 
has to give. 

Sav. Learning and worth ought— — 

Johns. Nay, sir, do not talk stuff. Learning and worth 
may pace the streets, and reflect on their own merits till 
they are weary, but the world has other matters to think of. 
Personal qualities do not rise in society, unless their pos- 
sessor has the art of making them subservient to the want 
of others. A man who appears at vanity fair, with a spe- 
cies of merchandise which every person can do without, 
will only be laughed at, if he gives himself airs, 



182 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



SECTION LXXI. 

EXTRACT FROM THE SPEECH OF MR. PITT, ON THE UNION 
WITH IRELAND. 

While I combat this general and abstracted principle, 
which would operate as an objection to every union between 
separate states, on the ground of the sacrifice of indepen- 
dence, do 1 mean to contend that there is in no case just 
ground for such a sentiment 1 Far from it ; it may become, 
on many occasions, the first duty of a free and generous 
people. If there exists a country which contains within 
itself the means of military protection, the naval force 
necessary for its defence, which furnishes objects of indus- 
try sufficient for the subsistence of its inhabitants, and pe- 
cuniary resources adequate to maintaining, with dignity, 
the rank which it has attained among the nations of the 
, world ; if, above all, it enjoys the blessings of internal con- 
tent and tranquillity, and possesses a distinct constitution of 
its own, the defects of which, if any, it is within itself ca- 
pable of correcting ; and if that constitution be equal, if not 
superior, to that of any other in the world, or (which is 
nearly the same thing) if those who live under it believe it 
to be so, and fondly cherish that opinion, I can well indeed 
understand that such a country must be jealous of any 
measure, which is to associate it as a part of a larger and 
more extensive empire. 

But, sir, if, on the other hand, it should happen that 
there be a country which, against the greatest of all dan- 
gers that threaten its peace and security, has not adequate 
means of protecting itself without the aid of another nation ; 
if that other be a neighbouring and kindred nation, speaking 
the same language, whose laws, whose customs and habits 
are the same in principle, but carried to a greater degree of 
perfection, with a more extensive commerce, and more 
abundant means of acquiring and diffusing national wealth, 
the stability of whose government — the excellence of whose 
constitution, is more than ever the admiration and envy of 
Europe, and of which the very country of which we are. 
speaking can only boast an inadequate and imperfect re- 
semblance ; — under such circumstances, I would ask, what 
conduct would be prescribed by every rational principle of 
dignity, of honour, or of interest ? I would ask, whether 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 183 

Great Britain is not precisely the nation, with which, on 
these principles, a country situated as Ireland is, would de- 
sire to unite ? Does an union, under such circumstances, 
by free consent, and on just and equal terms, deserve to be 
branded as a proposal for subjecting Ireland to a foreign yoke 1 
Is it not rather the free and voluntary association of two 
great countries, which join, for their common benefit in one 
empire, where each will retain its proportional weight and 
importance, under the security of equal laws, reciprocal af- 
fection, and inseparable interests, and which want nothing 
but that indissoluble connexion to render both invincible ? 

" Non ego nee Teucris Italc-3 parere jubebo 
Nee nova regna peto ; paribus se legibus ambae 
Invictae gentes agterna in foedera mittant." 

What has been the result of the union in Scotland,? An 
union, give me leave to say, as much opposed, and by 
much the same arguments, prejudices, and misconceptions, 
as are urged at this moment : creating too the same alarms, 
and provoking the same outrages, as have lately taken place 
in Dublin. Look at the metropolis of Scotland : the popu- 
lation of Edinburgh has been more than doubled since the 
union, and a new city added to the old. 

Sir, I hope the zeal the spirit, and the liberal and en- 
larged policy of this country, has given ample proof that it 
is not from a pecuniary motive that we seek an union. If 
it is not desirable on the grounds I have stated, it cannot 
be recommended for the purpose of taxation : but to quiet 
any jealousy on this subject, here again let us look to Scot- 
land : Is there any instance where, with forty- five members 
on her part, and five hundred and thirteen on ours, that 
part of the united kingdom has paid more than its propor- 
tion to the general burthens ? Is it then, sir, any ground 
of apprehension that we are likely to tax Ireland more 
heavily when she becomes associated with ourselves ? 

But, sir, in addition to this, if we come to the details of 
this proposition, it is in our power to fix, for any number of 
years which shall be thought fit, the proportion by which 
the contribution of Ireland to the expenses of the state shall 
be regulated ; that these proportions shall not be such as 
would make a contribution greater than the necessary amount 
of its own present necessary expenses as a separate king- 
dom; and even after that limited period, the proportion of 
the whole contribution from time to time might be made to 



184 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

depend upon the comparative produce, in each kingdom, 
of such general taxes as might be thought to afford the best 
criterion of their respective wealth. 



SECTION LXXII. 

adam smith — highland laird Blackwood 1 s Magazine. 

Adam Smith. And what is the name of your estate, 
Mr. Macrurah ? Is it an extensive one ? 

Macrurah. The name is Coilanach-goilach, which means 
the roaring of the wind upon a hill. It is supposed to con- 
tain from twelve to nineteen hundred acres; but we do not 
know, for that is not our way of measuring. 

Smith. What then is your way of measuring ? for 1 
thought there had been only one. 

Mac. Why, our method is grand and ingenious. It is thus: 
Every highland gentleman maintains a large band of pipers. 
When he wishes to measure his estate, a piper is placed at 
the northern boundary, who plays as loudly as he is able, 
and the rest having left him, march southward as far as they 
can hear the sound of the pipes. There they stop ; and 
another piper is left, who plays as loud as the first. In the 
meantime, the rest march forward again, till the sound of 
the second piper is barely heard, and at this station a 
third piper is left, — and so on, till there is a chain of pipers 
extending from the northern to the southern boundary of 
the estate. The same thing is done from east to west, — and 
the dimensions are ascertained by the number of pipers 
employed. 

Smith. Upon my word, Mr. Macrurah, this method is a 
noble and ingenious one. It is quite feudal. But how do 
you manage with the pipers, when they come home to din- 
ner after their walk ? Is not their maintenance expensive ? 

Mac. Not at all. We make them play during the whole 
time of dinner. 

Smith. The bag-pipe is a species of music I never could 
relish ; and therefore, if 1 were dining at the house of a 
chieftain, it would not cost me much regret, to find they 
were employed in measuring his territories. 

Mac. Well, it is otherwise with me. The exploits of 
Fingal Mac-coul are meat and drink to me. But when the 
schoolmaster comes to dine with me, he looks as if he were 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 185 

sitting upon thorns, for he cannot hear himself speak. 'Tis 
a noble recreation. 

Smith, You are of an old family, Mr. Macrurah ; I am 
quite a plebeian, and do not understand these things. 

Mac. Faith, Dr. Smith, it is not every one who is able 
to follow our sennachie, when he goes far into antiquity ; 
but he is always sure of his cup of ale at the conclusion. 

Smith. Pray, what may your lands rent at ? 

Mac. Two shillings an acre, overhead, or thereabouts. 
We send forth droves of the finest little black bullocks you 
ever saw ; and when they come down through Northum- 
berland, it shews the English knaves what noble cheer we 
have at Coilanach-goilach. 

Smith. You are obliged to send some of them away, 
to make other things come back in their stead. 

Mac. No, faith! no, Dr. Smith. Nothing comes back 
to me ; it goes all to a scoundrel of a trustee. I have been 
very ill used, Dr. Smith, — very ill, indeed. 

Smith. That is a common case. You should send 
away some of your retainers, the pipers for instance, who, 
to use a proverbial expression, give more cry than wool. 

Mac. Send away my retainers ! Dr. Smith, will it 
please you to recollect whom you are addressing. 

Smith. 1 beg your pardon. Upon my word, I meant 
no offence. 

Mac. My eldest son, Fergus, has been very expensive 
to me. He is worse than a dozen of retainers who don't 
play at billiards. 

Smith. Young men must have their swing for a time. 

Mac. He never looks near me, but in the shooting sea- 
son, and then it is with a fifty guinea fowling-piece over his 
shoulders. W hen he pats his dogs on the head, I tell him 
not to be so kind to them, for they will one day tear the 
coat off his father's back. 

Smith. These young heirs are very apt to forget their 
arithmetic, when they come down to the metropolis. 

Mac. I have repeatedly spoken to Mrs. Macrurah about 
drawing him in, but she says we must support the credit of 
the family. His principal associates, after all, are nothing 
but young barrister things, without either cash or connex- 
ions; and who think themselves bucks, if they can foist off 
a guinea's worth of their balderdash, once in the twelve- 
month. None of my sons are lawyers — I have put them all 
into the army. Fergus goes arm in arm even with young 



186 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



attornies, who, having shuffled over their business in the 
forenoon, and washed off the dust they gathered among 
their confounded parchments, think themselves as good as 
any Highland gentleman. 

Smith. ,r Fis very hard, Mr. Macrurah of Coilanach- 
goilach. 



SECTION LXXIII. 

EXTRACT FROM KNICKERBOCKER^ HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 

Washington Irving. 

It seems by some strange and inscrutable fatality, to be 
the destiny of most countries, (and more especially of your 
enlightened republics) always to be governed by the most 
incompetent man in the nation, so that you will scarcely 
find an individual throughout the whole community who 
cannot point out innumerable errors in administration, and 
convince you in the end, that, had he been at the head of 
affairs, matters would have gone on a thousand times more 
prosperously. Strange ! that government, which seems 
to be so generally understood, should invariably be so erro- 
neously administered — strange, that the talent of legislation, 
so prodigally bestowed, should be denied to the only man 
in the nation to whose station it is requisite ! 

Scarcely, therefore, had the governor departed on his 
expedition against the Swedes, than the old factions began 
to thrust their heads above water, and to gather together in 
political meetings, to discuss " the state of the nation." 
Under the tuition of these profound politicians, it is aston- 
ishing how suddenly enlightened the swinish multitude 
became in matters above their comprehension. Cobblers, 
tinkers, and tailors, all at once felt themselves inspired, 
like those religious idiots, in the glorious times of monkish 
illumination ; and without any previous study or experi- 
ence, became instantly capable of directing all the move- 
ments of government. To suppose that a man who had 
helped to discover a country, did not know how it ought to 
be governed, was preposterous in the extreme. It would 
have been deemed as much a heresy, as at the present day, 
to question the political talents and universal infallibility of 
our old " heroes of '76" — and to doubt that he who had 
fought for a government, however stupid he might natural- 
ly be, was not competent to fill any station under it. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



187 



But as Peter Stuyvesant had a singular inclination to 
govern his province without the assistance of his subjects, 
he felt highly incensed on his return to find the factious 
appearance they had assumed during his absence. His 
first measure, therefore, was to restore perfect order, by 
prostrating the dignity of the sovereign people. 

He accordingly watched his opportunity, and one eve- 
ning when the enlightened mob was gathered together, 
listening to a patriotic speech from an inspired cobbler, the 
intrepid Peter all at once appeared among them, with a 
countenance sufficient to petrify a mill stone. The whole 
meeting was thrown into consternation — the orator seemed 
to have received a paralytic stroke in the very middle of a 
sublime sentence, and stood aghast with open mouth and 
trembling knees, while the words horror ! tyranny ! liberty ! 
rights! taxes! death! destruction! and a deluge of other 
patriotic phrases, came roaring from his throat, before he 
had power to close his lips. The shrewd Peter took no no- 
tice of the skulking throng around him, but advancing to the 
brawling bully-ruffian, and drawing out a huge silver watch, 
which might have served in times of yore as a town clock, 
and which is still retained by his descendants as a family 
curiosity, requested the orator to mend it, and set it go- 
ing. The orator humbly confessed it was utterly out of his 
power, as he was unacquainted with the nature of its construc- 
tion. "Nay, but/ 5 said Peter, "try your ingenuity, man ; you 
see all the springs and wheels, and how easily the clumsiest 
hand may stop it, and pull it to pieces ; and why should it not 
be equally easy to regulate as to stop it V 9 The orator declar- 
ed that his trade was wholly different — that he was a poor 
cobbler, and had never meddled with a watch in his life — 
That there were men skilled in the art, whose business it 
was to attend to those matters, but for his part, he should 
only mar the workmanship, and put the whole in confusion. 
" Why harkee, master of mine," cried Peter, turning sud- 
denly upon him, with a countenance that almost petrified 
the patcher of shoes into a perfect lapstone — " dost thou 
pretend to meddle with the movements of government — to 
regulate, and correct, and patch, and cobble a complicated 
machine, the principles of which are above thy comprehen- 
sion, and its simplest operations too subtle for thy under- 
standing ; when thou canst not correct a trifling error in a 
common piece of mechanism, the whole mystery of which 
.is open to thy inspection ? — Hence with thee to the leather 
and stone, which are emblems of thy head, cobble thy 



188 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

shoes, and confine thyself to the vocation for which heaven 
has fitted thee — " But," elevating his voice until it made 
the welkin ring, " if ever I catch thee, or any of thy tribe, 
meddling again with affairs of government, by St. Nicholas, 
but I'll have every mother's son of ye flayed alive, and your 
hides stretched for drum-heads, that ye may thenceforth 
make a noise to some purpose !" 



SECTION LXXIV. 
masaniello — genuino B. S. Ingeman. 

Genuino. Now, let me wish thee joy ! Methinks, great 
hero, 
Thy work ere long shall be fulfilled — and I 
Shall hail in thee the Brutus of our land ! 

Masaniello. That greeting will attend me on the scaf- 
fold ! 
But 'tis no matter ! If the seeds now sown 
With bloody hand, shall rise on high, mine eyes 
Full gladly will I close — though they have not 
Beheld the happy fruits. 

Gen. Why with such thoughts 

Torment thyself? 

Man. Father, such thoughts to me 

Are joyful, and exalt my soul to heaven ! 
If yonder I behold my Saviour's form, 
With thorns upon his meekly bending head, 
And blood upon his agonizing breast, 
I envy even the robber, who by him 
Forgiven in his last hour, was borne away 
To paradise. 

Gen. Nay, thither by the grace 

Of heaven we all shall come. Truly 'tis great 
This life to sacrifice ; but greater still 
To use it well on earth. 

Mas. Therefore to-day 

I use my life — to-morrow, I perchance 
Am call'd to offer it in sacrifice. 

Gen. Nay, this I hope not. In the rolls of fame 
Thy name will shine magnificently blazon'd ; 
And when the people, with their chains, as now, 
Are struggling, they will cry with voices hoarse, 
In vain for Masaniello !— Yet, to thee 
Splendour is not in thine own times denied, 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 189 

Mas. Speak not thus proudly. From approving Heaven 
Alone can honour flow. The dust which here 
The Almighty has employed shall be like chaff 
Cast to the winds, and be no more remembered. 

Gen. But therefore should the flowers that spring on earth, 
Be cropt before the storm winds come to tear them ! — 
Even this life is a treasure, and if thou 
Scorn'st its enjoyments, thou disdain'st indeed 
The works of Heaven. 

Mas. Such words in paradise, 

The serpent might have used. 

Gen. (aside.) Ha ! have I then 

Betray 'd myself? — (aloud.) Well, be it as thou wilt — 
We differ in our language, not in thought. 
If now the viceroy all our claims has granted, 
And all thy plans have fairly been fulfiU'd, 
Thy noble deeds must not be under-rated. 
Lift up thyself from poverty to wealth — 
From mean estate to power and dignity ! 
Thou wilt not now refuse in minor points, 
To humour the great duke, nor lightly shed 
The blood of innocent men. 

Mas. What blood must here 

Be shed I know not — that let Heaven determine : 
But this I know — that if upon the throne 
The haughty duke should place me by his side, 
I would but stand there, still with sword in hand, 
Until the people from their chains were free, 
And then unto my humble cot return, 

Gen. See'st thou not 
That thou art call'd to better services 
Than catching fish and mending nets? — Wert thou 
So fortunate as from the deep to drag 
A rare and costly pearl, that might for thee 
Rich luxuries obtain, and aid thy friend, 
Would'st thou then cast it from thee ? 

Mas. Holy father, 

I understand thee : — Thou would'st share with me 
The luxuries from that pearl derived. So oft 
Have I to thee confess'd, now let me be 
Confessor in my turn. 

Gen. I call it not 

A sin, to set a proper value here 
On this life's blessings ; freely I confess 
R % 



190 THE CLASSICAL SPEA&EMi 

That as 1 have my share of sufferings borne i 
I would partake thy fortune, — but thy name 
And well-earned glory still remain thine own. 
Think ! thou hast promised that when first thy plans 
Were all fulfiU'd, thou would'st not then forget 
My faithful services. 

Mas. I would that now 

I could forget the monk who stands before me, 
For he is like the accurs'd and crafty snake ! — 
Hence ! from my sight — ne'er hast thou understood me t 

Gen. Nay, friend, for thine own good I counselled thee, 
And merit not thine anger. I indeed 
Have understood thee better than thou think'st, 
But now no more must aid the vision wild 
That first inspired thee. True 'twas amiable, 
And showed at once a soul that could be fired 
By one great thought and reigning principle, 
Whether correct or false it matter'd not, — 
Nor will the stream of passion pause for reason. 
Thou deem'dst it greater, life to sacrifice, 
Than here to use it for the weal of men ; 
I did encourage thee — for I foresaw 
Without the visionary confidence, 

That thou wert chosen the avenging scourge of Heaven, 
Thou wouldst not for our liberties contend ; 
But now as 1 believe the goal is won — 
'Tis time that I should from thy sight withdraw 
The darkening veil, and from such dreams awake thee ; 
That in reality thou should'st rejoice, 
And grasp the treasure, whereon foolishly 
Thou seek'st to close thine eyes. Go, seize it boldly, 
For it is thine ! 

Mas. Thou, satan, get behind me ! 

Go from my sight — I hate and I despise thee !— 
These were thy pious hopes, and I forsooth, 
Was in thy hands a pipe to play upon, 
And at thy music my poor soul to death 
Should dance before thee ! Thou hast err'd. From dreams 
Thou hast indeed awoke me. While thou tear'st 
The dark veil from my sight, thy mask hath fall'n ; 
Thou stand'st at length before me undisguised, 
Of all earth's grovelling crew the most accursed. 
Thou worm! thou viper! to thy native earth 
Return ! Away ! Thou art too base for man 
To tread upon. Thy words have not deceived me. 
Thou, scum ! thou reptile ! 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER* 191 



SECTION LXXV. 

EXTRACT FRO]Vt PROFESSOR CHANNING's INAUGURAL 
DISCOURSE, DEC. 8, 1S19. 

We may account for the power of the ancient orator 4 
from the effects of the false estimates which prevailed on 
the subject of national grandeur and happiness. Nothing 
was sooner upon the lips of the old republican, than his 
love of freedom and of his country. But what were liber- 
ty and patriotism then 1 Did they show themselves in a love 
of social order, and temperate government, and in a livelier 
jealousy of a domestic usurper than a foreign rival ? Did 
they lead the citizen to value the comforts of home, the 
substantial improvements and ornaments of life, the solid 
institutions of a deliberate and virtuous commonwealth, in- 
finitely more than his sway over other nations, that were 
too distant even to share his blessings, much less endanger 
his security ? No — through all the splendour which genius 
has thrown over the old commonwealths, we can easily 
discern that the spirit of their government was thoroughly 
warlike — that their love of freedom was another name for 
ferocious lawlessness, and that their love of country cloaked 
a boundless ambition of power. He was the favourite who 
could swell the empire, multiply its resources, crowd the 
streets with trophies and captives, and make the world 
itself the prison-house of one master. Society was unset- 
tled and irregular throughout, and seemed to be a combi- 
nation for extending power, rather than establishing a 
prosperous security. Here, then, was room for the orator 
to pamper the pride of conquerors, or rouse the courage 
and scatter the shame of the defeated. National vanity, 
national ambition, were the principles he was perpetually 
called on to address. Were there evils in the state which 
required sober and thorough reform ? The orator could 
draw the attention of the discontented to some foreign en- 
terprise, or fix it upon a victim at home, and tempt them to 
waste their irritation upon an unpopular public benefactor, 
or upon some harmless neighbour, whose liberty gave of- 
fence. Were there factions in the state which threatened 
its security ? The orator was at hand to aid the designing, 
or rescue his country. Was the invader approaching in 
an hour of security or despair ? The orator was called on 
to form alliances, negotiate with the enemy, breathe the 



192 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER^ 

spirit of resistance into his countrymen, and sometimes to 
waste the noblest strains of human eloquence over the last 
struggles of ill-adjusted and ill-guarded freedom. 

But oratory, now, is said to be almost* a lost art. We 
hear constantly how it has fallen from its old supremacy, 
and lost its early splendour. Is this that we have learnt to 
despise our masters ? Has their literature lost its hold upon 
our affections and veneration? Do we throw away their 
poetry and their eloquence, as the worthless ornaments of 
a voluptuous and decaying people ? There never was a 
time when classical learning was held in juster veneration 
than at this day — a veneration that could be more grateful 
to those who inspired it. There never was a time when 
the disposition was stronger to make this learning practi- 
cally useful ; to take it from the sophist, the disputant, the 
overloaded, slumbering scholar, and put it into the hands 
of the philosopher, the soldier, the physician, the divine, 
the jurist, and statesman. It is the spirit of the age to turn 
every thing to account, and to let no good learning remain 
idle. How is it that eloquence has gone behind-hand ? 
There are not more who seriously deny its uses now, than 
there were in the ancient commonwealths. There are 
popular governments on the earth now, where ambition, 
and patriotism, and the free expression of our opinions, are 
yet countenanced and rewarded, and where honour and use- 
fulness follow influence as surely as they did in the age 
of Philip or Caesar. 



SECTION LXXVI. 

RAMPSINIT1S PHARAOH MOSES AnonymOUS. 

Rampsinitis. Son of the ancient word, eldest of kings, 
Let not the light'ning of thy wrath destroy 
The lowliest of thy servants, if he pray 
That, in thy wisdom, thou betray not scorn 
Against that God of terrors. Thou dost know him, 
And Egypt trembles still, e'en midst this darkness, 
At the remembered horrors of his might. 
Have mercy, then, dry up thy Egypt's tears, 
And let the people go ! 

Pharaoh. Their pangs affect me ; 

But do they mourn alone ? rest I, their king, 
On beds of henna flowers ! — are my limbs 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 193 

Refresh'd by perfumed waters ! — hath the bread 
Of Lotus calm'd mine hunger, or the cup 
Of its cool beverage allay'd the fires 
That burn within my vitals ! — I too sink 
With horror, famine, sickness ! — But T yield 
Not for myself, but them. Go, therefore, now, 
Thou eye of Egypt, through this hideous gloom, 
And to our presence bid this wondrous chief — 
This plague-deriving Magian ! 

Moses. Amram's son 

Stands face to face with Pharaoh. 

Phar. Hear, son of Levi ! 

We do repent our anger, and entreat, 
By thee, the mercy of thine angry God ; 
Restore us light ! — Light, though before our eyes 
It places thee, our foe ! — Light, then, wise Magian ! 
Although 1 am not used in the tongue 
Of mild entreaty, yet I do beseech thee, 
If that indeed thy God within his breast 
Hath shrouded the bright day, restore it back 
To freedom and to Egypt; — thy reward 
Shall be thine own accorded prayer. From Chemia 
Depart — thou and thy people ! 

Moses. Mighty lord ! 

Angel of darkness! throw thy mantle down, 
And clothe thyself in thine own proper robe — 
The vestments of bright glory ; — let thy seat, 
The black thick cloud wherein thou art enthroned, 
Sink into chaos, at the pitying glance 
Thine angel-eye doth dart upon this spot — 
This footstool of thy vengeance ! — Rise to heaven, 
And, as thou mountest, say again those words 
Of might, and blessedness — " Let there be light f" 
And light will gladden Egypt ! 

Phar. It is day ! 

A day miraculous, and brighter far 
Than hath mine eyes e'er witnessed ! — Am I blind ? 
My senses ache ! — it is the lurid flame 
Of vivid lightnings that doth blast my sight ! 
Where art thou, Rampsinitis? — I am faint ! — 
The subtle slave hath kilFd me ! 

Ramp. Our dear lord ! 

Revive, and all is well ! — A moment more, 
And to thy sense oppressed strength will come, 
To bear the glory of the new-born day ; 






194 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Look up, my lord, the Magian hath obey'd 
Thy sacred will ! 

Phar. How pale and wan ye are ! — O my people, 
How deeply have ye suffered ! If ye come 
To greet your sovereign with such looks as these, 
My throne will seem the awful seat of death, 
And I the crowned spectre sitting there 
Encircled by the dead — accursed the cause, 
These subtle dealers with us ! — let them go ! 
To draw all nations on us, and to rain 
Whene'er it pleases, all these tortures on 
My own beloved land ! — They say they go 
To sacrifice. No more ! — Well, let them go ; 
But I must be assured of their return, 
Ere they shall quit our Egypt. Hear, thou son 
Of the misguided Thermutis, depart 
And pay the sacrifice which thou hast vow'd. 
Go with thy people, take their wives, their babes ; 
Nought ask I, as the hostage of thy faith, 
The pledge of thy return, but that the flocks 
Remain in Goshen, till the stranger dust 
Be shaken from your feet, on Egypt's soil. 

Moses. We must not honour Israel's God by sin ; 
He doth command that we should sacrifice ; 
May this be done without our flocks and herds? 
We dare not go to sanctify our God, 
And show him disobedience. 

Ramp. Amram's son, 

Why, thus perverse, provoke the wrath of Pharaoh ? 
The king says well, if honestly ye mean 
To come back to your master, leave the herds 
As hostage of your truth ; small is the lot 
Ye need for offerings ; take what may suffice, 
And leave, the flocks in Goshen. 

Moses. Rampsinitis, 

My soul is sad for thee ! — Thou hast drawn down 
Upon thine head the wrath of Israel's God, 
Who hitherto hath spared thee. O, be silent, 
Avoid the coming tempest. But for Pharaoh, 
Thus much,— The herds must go ; no, not one head 
May stay in Goshen's valleys. They shall go, 
We may not move without them. 

Ramp. Now then, Levi, 

I plead for thee no farther. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 195 

Phar. Why, thou slave ! — 

Thou most ungrateful to thy parent-land; 
I am not blind to thy design ; but where, 
Where would thy proud ambition lead thy people ? 
Where is their country ? — Where the resting-place 
Fairer than Goshen ? or the river's wave 
More bounteous than our Nile, to which thy spirit, 
Thy patriot spirit, roused by the dear cry 
Of " native land/' is burning to conduct thee, 
Defying toil, and danger ! — Hypocrite ! 
Thy parent was the Nile, thy country, Egypt ! — 
When the false Hebrew woman on the bed 
Of mighty Nilus laid thy rush-built ark, 
Witness, Osiris, witness, mighty Isis, 
With what a care he nestled thy young form 
In his broad bosom — he forbade his waves 
To rise, lest their ungentle motion should 
Break on thy quiet slumbers ; he forbade 
The wind to howl around thee, but he sent 
Soft gentle airs to sing thee to thy sleep, 
Mildly to curl his waters, and to bear 
Thee, pillow'd on his bosom, to thy home, — 
Thy royal home, the arms of Thermutis, 
Who made thee great in Egypt. Hence with thee, hence ! 
Who is the God, for whom thou darest me thus ! — 
Go — thrust him from my presence — now, take heed 
Thine own life be secure ; come not again 
Before my face, for in the day thou dost, 
By Isis, thou shalt die ! 

Moses. Thou hast said well, 

No more again shall I behold thy face. 
Who is the God, for whom I dare thy wrath ? 
Hear, Pharaoh, — Egypt, hear ! — It is the God 
Who rules your deities, the moon, the stars,— 
Who made them, not for worship, but for service, 
The humblest service, service of his creatures. 
He is alone, he is the One, the All, 
From all eternity, to all enduring ; 
The crowned with the sun, circled by fire, 
Veil'd in thick clouds, through which the lightnings glance 
From his immortal eye. His breath is storm, 
His voice the thunder, and a thousand worlds 
Are shaken in their spheres, at his stern tread. 
His garment is the heavens, and this earth 
The signet on his hand ! 



l! 



196 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



SECTION LXXVIL 

EXTRACT FROM THE WEST INDIAN CONTROVERSY. 

Blackwood's Magazine, 

Mr. Brougham adopts boldly, in the Edinburgh Renew, 
the very simple and satisfactory argument on which Mr. 
Ciarkson rests the whole substance of his late pamphlet. 
It amounts to this : — Every man has an in-born indefeasi- 
ble right to the free use of his own bodily strength and ex- 
ertion ; it follows that no man can be kept for one moment 
in a state of bondage, without the guilt of robbery : there- 
fore the West Indian negroes ought to be set free. This is 
an argument of very easy comprehension, and the Edin- 
burgh reviewer exclaims, with an air of very well enacted 
triumph, " Such plain ways of considering the question are, 
after all, the best!" 

Ingenious Quaker, and most ingenious reviewer ! If this 
be so, why write pamphlets and reviews full of arguments 
and details, or pretended details of facts ? If every West 
Indian planter is a thief and a robber, why bother our heads 
about the propriety, the propriety forsooth, of compelling 
him to make restitution 1 If the British nation is guilty as 
an accessary both before the fact, and in the fact, of theft 
and robbery, why tell the British nation that they are the 
most virtuous and religious nation in the world, and that they 
ought to restore what they have stolen and robbed, because 
they are so virtuous and so religious ? The affair is so base, 
that it will scarcely bear looking at for one second. What ! 
long prosing discussions about whether we ought to cease to 
be thieves and robbers, now, or ten years, or a hundred years 
hence ! Was ever such a monstrous perversion of human 
powers ? Sir, that estate is not yours — it is your neighbour's 
estate, and you have no more right to cultivate it, or any 
part of it, for your own behoof, than the man in the moon. 
You must restore this estate to its rightful owner — Imme- 
diately ? No, not immediately. Your neighbour ought to 
have the acres, and knows that he ought to have them. 
They are his right, he has been long deprived of the estate 
— his father was deprived of it before him. The family 
have all been brought up in away quite different from what 
would have been, had they been in possession of their rights. 
They have formed habits altogether unlike what those of 
the proprietors of such an estate ought to be. They have 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 197 

been accustomed to poverty, and they are an ignorant, un- 
educated family. You must not give up their land imme- 
diately. They would be injured in their health and mor- 
als, by the immediate possession of their estate. Indeed, it 
may be doubted whether the present man ought ever to get 
his land at all. 

You therefore must, from a regard for the best interests 
of this family, continue in the meantime, thief and robber 
of their goods. Let the young men be hedgers and ditch- 
ers on your estate, as they have been ; let the young women 
continue at service. But you must improve the parish school, 
lower the schoolmaster's wages by degrees, so as to let all 
these young people have an opportunity of picking up some 
education. By this means, the family will gradually get up 
their heads a little ; and at some future period, it may be 
found quite safe and proper to give them all their rights. 
The present people, to be sure, will be dead ere then — but 
how can you help that ? You are not the original thief, 
you know, — you can't answer for all the consequences of a 
crime, into which you may be said to have been led by your 
own parents, and by the whole course of your own educa- 
tion. No, no — it would never do to give up the stolen goods 
at once. As T said before, it would certainly turn the heads 
of all these poor people — the parish would be kept in a state 
of hot water by them. Time must be allowed for taming 
them ; they were always a hot-headed family. In due time 
you ought to desist from your present crimes. 

Such substantially is — such cannot be denied to be — the 
"the plain and simple" argument of these gentlemen; 
and so is it applied by themselves to the subject which, plain 
and simple as it is, they have taken such huge pains to 
elucidate. 

It is upon such arguments that a complete revolution of 
the whole domestic, as well as political relations, in the 
whole of these great colonial establishments is demanded ; 
a revolution involving, if we are to listen for a moment to 
the proprietors of these islands, the absolute ruin of all 
their possessions ; a revolution, the perilous nature of which 
is confessed by these men themselves in the language — the 
indescribable, ineffable language — which says to all the 
world, " This revolution must be : Justice demands it — 
Religion demands it : but we confess, that in spite of jus- 
tice and religion, it must not be now " 
S 



198 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER, 

SECTION LXXVIII. 

PROCIDA MONTALBA RAIMOND— GUIDO Mrs. HematlS. 

Procida. The morn lower 'd darkly, but the sun hath now, 
With fierce and angry splendour, through the clouds 
Burst forth, as if impatient to behold 
This, our high triumph. Lead the prisoner in. 

[Enter Raimond. 
Why, what a bright and fearless brow is here ! 
- — Is this man guilty ? — Look on him, Montalba ! 

Montalba. Be firm. Should justice falter at a look ? 

Pro. No, thou say'st well. Her eyes are filletted, 
Or should be so. Thou that dost call thyself — 
But no ! I will not breathe a traitor's name — 
Speak ! thou art arraign'd of treason. 

Raimond, I arraign 

You, before whom I stand, of darker guilt, 
In the bright face of heaven ; and your own hearts 
Give echo to the charge. Your very looks 
Have ta'en the stamp of crime, and seem to shrink 
With a perturb'd and haggard wildness, back 
From the too-searching light. W 7 hy, what hath wrought 
This change on noble brows ? — There is a voice 
With a deep answer, rising from the blood 
Your hands have coldly shed ! — Ye are of those 
From whom just men recoil, with curdling veins, 
All thrilFd by life's abhorrent consciousness, 
And sensitive feeling of a murderer's presence. 
Away ! come down from your tribunal-seat, 
Put off your robes of state, and let your mien 
Be pale and humbled ; for ye bear about you 
That which repugnant earth doth sicken at, 
More than the pestilence. That I should live 
To see my father shrink ! 

Pro. Montalba, speak ! 

There's something chokes my voice—but fear me not. 

Mont. If we must plead to vindicate our acts, 
Be it when thou hast made thine own look clear ; 
Most eloquent youth ! What answer canst thou make 
To this our charge of treason ? 

Rai. I will plead 

That cause before a mightier judgment-throne, 
Where mercy is not guilt. But here, I feel, 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 199 

Too buoyantly the glory and the joy 

Of my free spirit's whiteness ; for e'en now 

TV embodied hideousness of crime doth seem 

Before me glaring out. Why, I saw thee, 

Thy foot upon an aged warrior's breast, 

Trampling out nature's last convulsive heavings. 

And thou — thy sword — Oh, valiant chief! — is yet 

Red from the noble stroke which pierced, at once, 

A mother and the babe, whose little life 

Was from her bosom drawn ! Immortal deeds 

For bards to hymn ! 

Gui. (aside.) I look upon his mien, 

And waver. Can it be ? — My boyish heart 
Deem'd him so noble once ! — Away, weak thoughts! 
Why should I shrink, as if the guilt were mine, 
From his proud glance 1 

Pro. Oh, thou dissembler ! thou, 

So skill'd to clothe with virtue's generous flush 
The hollow cheek of cold hypocrisy, 
That, with thy guilt made manifest, I can scarce 
Believe thee guilty ! — look on me, and say 
Whose was the secret warning voice, that saved 
De Couci with his bands, to join our foes, 
And forge new fetters for th' indignant land ? 
Whose was this treachery ? (Shows him papers.) 

Who hath promised here, 
(Belike to appease the manes of the dead,) 
At midnight to unfold Palermo's gates, 
And welcome in the foe ? — Who hath done this, 
But thou, a tyrant's friend ? 

Rai. Who hath done this 1 

Father ! — if I may call thee by that name — 
Look, with thy piercing eye, on those whose smiles 
Were masks that hid their daggers. There, perchance, 
May lurk what loves not light too strong. For me, 
I know but this — there needs no deep research 
To prove the truth— that murderers may be traitors 
Ev'n to each other. 

Pro. (to Mont.) His unaltering cheek 
Still vividly doth hold its natural hue, 
And his eye quails not ! — Is this innocence ? 

Mont. No ! 'tis th' unshrinking hardihood of crime* 
— Thou bear'st a gallant mien ! — But where is she 
Whom thou hast barter'd fame and life to save, 
The fair Provencal maid 1 — What know'st thou not 



300 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



That this alone were guilt to death allied ? 
Was 't not our law that he who spared a foe, 
(And is she not of that detested race?) 
Should thenceforth be amongst us as a foe ? 
Where hast thou borne her ? — speak ! 

Rai. That Heaven, whose eye 

Burns up thy soul with its far-searching glance, 
Is with her ; she is safe. 

Pro. And by that word 

Thy doom is sealed. Oh ! that'l had died 
Before this bitter hour, in the full stiength 
And glory of my heart ! 

Rai. The pang is o'er, 

And I have but to die. 

Mont. Now, Procida, 

Comes thy great task. Wake ! summon to thine aid 
All thy deep soul's commanding energies ; 
For thou — a chief among us— must pronounce 
The sentence of thy son. It rests with thee. 

Pro. Ha ! ha ! — Men's hearts should be of softer mould 
Than in the elder time. Fathers could doom 
Their children then with an unfaltering voice, 
And we must tremble thus ! — Is it not said, 
That nature grows degenerate, earth being now 
So full of days? 

Mont. Rouse up thy mighty heart. 

Pro. Ay, thou say'st right. There yet are souls which 
tower 
As landmarks to mankind. Well, what 's the task ? 
— There is a man to be condemn'd, you say ? 
Is he then guilty 1 

All. Thus we deem of him 

With one accord. 

Pro. And hath he nought to plead ? 

Rai. Nought but a soul unstain'd. 

Pro. Why, that is little. 

Stains on the soul are but as conscience deems them ; 
And conscience — may be sear'd. But, for this sentence ! 
— Was 5 t not the penalty imposed on man, 
E'en from creation's dawn, that he must die? 
— It was : thus making guilt a sacrifice 
Unto eternal justice ; and we but 
Obey Heaven's mandate, when we cast dark souls 
To th' elements from amongst us. Be it so ! 
Such be his doom ! — I have said. Ay, now my heart 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 201 

Is girt with adamant, whose cold weight doth press 
Its gaspings down. Off! let me breathe in freedom! 
— Mountains are on my breast ! 

Mont Guards, bear the prisoner 

Back to his dungeon. 

Rai. Father ! oh, look up ; 

Thou art my father still ! 

Gui. Oh, Raimond, Raimond ! 

If it should be that I have wrong' d thee, say 
Thou dost forgive me. 

Rai. Friend of my young days, 

So may all-pitying Heaven ! [Exit Raimond. 

Pro. Whose voice was that ? 

Where is he? — gone ? — now I may breathe once more 
In the free air of heaven. Let us away. 



SECTION LXXIX. 

EXTRACT FROM CANNING'S SPEECH ON UNLAWFUL ASSOCI- 
ATIONS IN IRELAND. 

My honourable friend has expended abundant research 
and subtilty upon this inquiry, and having resolved the 
phrase into its elements in the crucible of his philosophical 
mind, has produced it to us purified and refined to a degree 
that must command the admiration of all who take delight 
in metaphysical alchemy. My honourable and learned friend 
began by telling us, that, after all, hatred is no bad thing 
in itself. "I hate a Tory," says my honourable friend — 
" and another man hates a cat; but it does not follow that 
he would hunt down the cat, or I the Tory." Nay, so far 
from it — hatred if it be properly managed, is according to 
my honourable friend's theory, no bad preface to a rational 
esteem and affection. It prepares its votaries for a recon- 
ciliation of differences — for lying down with their most in- 
veterate enemies, like the leopard and the kid, in the vision 
of the prophet. This dogma is a little startling, but it is not 
altogether without precedent. It is borrowed from a char- 
acter in a play which is, I dare say, as great a favourite 
with my learned friend as it is with me : I mean, the com- 
edy of The Rivals ; in which Mrs. Malaprop, giving 
a lecture on the subject of marriage to her niece, (who 
S 2 



202 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER* 

is unreasonable enough to talk of liking, as a necessary 
preliminary to such a union,) says, " What have you to do 
with your likings and your preferences, child ? depend upon 
it, it is safest to begin with a little aversion. 1 am sure I 
hated your poor dear uncle like a blackamoor, before we 
were married; and yet yon know, my dear, what a good wife 
I made him." Such is my learned friend's argument to a hair. 
But finding that this doctrine did not appear to go down 
with the house so glibly as he had expected, my honourable 
and learned friend presently changed his tack ; and put for- 
ward a theory, which, whether for novelty or for beauty, I 
pronounce to be incomparable .; and, in short, as wanting 
nothing to recommend it but a slight foundation in truth. 
" True philosophy," says my honourable friend, will always 
continue to lead men to virtue by the instrumentality of their 
conflicting vices. The virtues, where more than one exist, 
may live harmoniously together ; but the vices bear mortal 
antipathy to one another, and therefore furnish to the moral 
engineer the power by which he can make each keep the 
other under control." Admirable ! but, upon this doctrine, 
the poor man who has but one single vice must be in a very 
bad way. No julcrum, no moral power for effecting Ms 
cure. Whereas his more fortunate neighbour, who has 
two or more vices in his composition, is in a fair way of 
becoming a very virtuous member of society. I wonder 
how my learned friend would like to have this doctrine in- 
troduced into his domestic establishment. For instance, 
suppose that I discharge a servant because he is addicted 
to liquor, I could not venture to recommend him to my hon- 
ourable and learned friend. It might be the poor man's 
only fault, and therefore clearly incorrigible ; but if I had the 
good fortune to find out that he was also addicted to stealing, 
might I not, with a safe conscience, send him to my learned 
friend with a strong recommendation, saying, I send you a 
man whom I know to be drunkard ; but I am happy to as- 
sure you, he is also a thief; you cannot do better than em- 
ploy him ; you will make his drunkenness counteract his 
thievery, and no doubt you will bring him out of the con- 
flict a very moral personage. 

My honourable and learned friend, however, not content 
with laying down these new rules for reformation, thought 
it right to exemplify them in his own person, and, like 
Pope's Longinus, to be " himself the great sublime he 
drew." My learned friend tells us that Dr. Johnson was 
(what he, Dr. Johnson, called himself) a good hater: and 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 203 

that among the qualities which he hated most were two 
which my honourable friend unites in his own person, that 
of Whig and that of Scotchman. " So that," says my 
honourable friend, " if Dr. Johnson were alive, and were 
to meet me at the club, of which *he was a founder, and of 
which I am now an unworthy member, he would probably 
break up the meeting rather, than sit it out in such society." 
No, sir, not so; my honourable and learned friend forgets his 
own theory. If he had been only a Whig, or only a Scotch- 
man, Dr. Johnson might have treated him as he apprehends ; 
but being both, the great moralist would have said to my 
honourable friend, " Sir, you are too much of a Whig to 
be a good Scotchman; and, sir, you are too much of a 
Scotchman to be a good Whig." It is, no doubt, from the 
collision of these two vices in my learned friend's person, 
that he has become what I, and all who have the happiness 
of meeting him at the club, find him — an entirely faultless 
character. 



SECTION LXXX. 

EXTRACT FROM CANNING'S SPEECH ON THE PORTUGUESE 
EXPEDITION. 

Sir, I set out with saying that there were reasons which 
entirely satisfied my judgment that nothing short of a point 
of national faith, or national honour, would justify, at the 
present moment, any voluntary approximation to the possi- 
bility of war. Let me be understood, however, distinctly, 
as not meaning to say that I dread war in a good cause, 
(and in no other may it be the lot of this country ever to 
engage!) from a distrust of the strength of the country to 
commence it, or of her resources to maintain it. 1 dread 
it, indeed — but upon far other grounds ; I dread it from an 
apprehension of the tremendous consequences which might 
arise from any hostilities in which we might now be en- 
gaged. Some years ago, in the discussion of the negotia- 
tion respecting the French war against Spain, I took the 
liberty of adverting to this topic. I then stated that the 
position of this country, in the present state of the world, 
was one of neutrality, not only between contending nations, 
but between conflicting principles ; and that it was by a 
neutrality alone that we could maintain that balance, the 
preservation of which I believe to be essential to the wel- 



204 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

fare of mankind. I then said, that I feared the next war 
which should be kindled in Europe, would be a war, not 
so much of armies, as of opinions. Not four years have 
elapsed, and behold my apprehensions realized ! It is, to 
be sure, within narrow limits that this war of opinion is at 
present confined : but it is a war of opinion that Spain 
(whether as government or as nation,) is now waging 
against Portugal ; it is a war which has commenced in 
hatred of the new institutions of Portugal. How long is it 
reasonable to expect that Portugal will abstain from retali- 
ation ? If into that war this country shall be compelled to 
enter, we shall enter into it with a sincere and anxious de- 
sire to mitigate rather than exasperate — and to mingle only 
in the conflict of arms, not in the more fatal conflict of 
opinions. But I much fear that this country, (however 
earnestly she might wish to avoid it,) could not, in such 
case, avoid seeing ranked under her banners, all the rest- 
less and dissatisfied of any nation with which she might 
come in conflict. It is the contemplation of this new power 
in any future war, which excites my most anxious appre- 
hension. It is one thing to have a giant's strength, but it 
would be another to use it like a giant. The conscious- 
ness of such strength is, undoubtedly, a source of confidence 
and security ; but in the situation in which this country 
stands, our business is not to seek opportunities of display- 
ing it, but to content ourselves with letting the professors 
of violent and exaggerated doctrines on both sides feel, 
that it is not their interest to convert an umpire into an ad- 
versary. The situation of England, amidst the struggle of 
political opinions which agitates, more or less sensibly, 
different countries of the, world, may be compared to 
that of the ruler of the winds, as described by the poet : 

- u Celsa sedet iEolus arce, 



Sceptra tenens ; mollitque animos et temperat iras ; 
Ni faeiat, maria ac terras coelumque profundum, 
Quippe ferant rapidi secum, verrantque per auras." 

The consequence of letting loose the passions, at present 
chained and confined, would be to produce a scene of des- 
olation which no man can contemplate without horror ; and 
I should not sleep easy on my couch, if I were conscious 
that I had contributed to precipitate it by a single moment. 
This, then, is the reason — a reason very different from fear 
— the reverse of consciousness of disability — why 1 dread 
the recurrence of hostilities in any part of Europe ; why I 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 205 

would bear much, and would forbear long ; why I would, 
as 1 have said, put up with almost any thing that did not 
touch national faith and national honour ; rather than let 
slip the furies of war, the leash of which we hold in our 
hands, not knowing whom they may reach, or how far their 
ravages may be carried. Such is the love of peace which 
the British government acknowledges ; and such the neces- 
sity for peace which the circumstances of the world incul- 
cate. I will push these topics no farther. I return, in 
conclusion, to the object of the address. Let us fly to the 
aid of Portugal, by whomsoever attacked ; because it is our 
duty to do so ; and let us cease our interference where that 
duty ends. We go to Portugal, not to rule, not to dictate, 
not to prescribe constitutions — but to defend and to pre- 
serve the independence of an ally. We go to plant the 
standard of England on the well-known heights of Lisbon. 
Where that standard is planted, foreign dominion shall not 
come. 



SECTION LXXXI. 
the monkey emancipator Blackwood? $ Magazine. 

'Tis strange what awkward figures and odd capers, 
Folks cut, who seek their doctrine from the papers ; 
But there are many shallow politicians 
Who take their bias from bewilder'd journals, 

Turn state-physicians, 
And make themselves foolscaps of the diurnals. 

One of this kind — not human, but a monkey, 
Had read himself at last to this sour creed, 
That he was nothing but oppression's flunkey, 
And man a tyrant over all his breed. 
His very dreams were full of martial beavers, 
And drilling pugs, for liberty pugnacious, 

To sever chains vexatious : 
In fact, he thought that all his injured line 
Should take up pikes in hand, and never drop 'em 
Till they had cleared a road to freedom's shrine — 
Until perchance the turnpike men should stop 'em. 



206 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 






Full of this rancour, 
Pacing one day beside St. Clement Danes, 

It came into his brains 
To give a look-in at the Crown and Anchor, 
Where certain solemn sages of the nation 
Were at that moment in deliberation 
How to relieve the wide world of its chains, 

Pluck despots down, 

And thereby crown 
Whitee- as well as blackee-nian-cipation. 
Pug heard their speeches with great approbation & 
And gazed with pride upon the liberators ; 

To see mere coal-heavers 

Such perfect Bolivars — 
Waiters of inns sublimed to innovators, 
And slaters dignified as legislators — 
Small publicans demanding (such their high sense 
Of liberty) an universal license, — 
And patten-makers easing freedom's clogs — 

The whole thing see-rn'd 

So fine, he deem'd 
The smallest demagogues as great as gogs ! 

Pug, with some curious notions in his noddle, 
Walk'd out at last, and turn'd into the strand. 

To the left hand, 
Conning some portions of the previous twaddle* 
And striding with a step that seem'd designed 
To represent the mighty march of mind. 
No wonder, then, that he should quickly find 
He stood in front of that intrusive pile, 

Where Cross keeps many a kind, 

Of bird confin'd, 
And free-born animal in durance vile, — 
A thought that stirr'd up all the monkey-bile ! 

The window stood ajar — 

It was not far, 
Nor, like Parnassus, very hard to climb — 
The hour was verging on the supper time, 
And many a growl was sent through many a bar — 
Meanwhile pug scrambled upward like a tar, 

And soon crept in, 

Unnoticed in the din 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 207 

Of tuneless throats that made the attics ring 
With all the harshest notes that they could bring. 

Zounds ! how it made him chafe, 
Full of his new emancipating zeal, 
To look around upon this brute-bastile, 
And see the king of creatures in — a safe ! 
The desert's denizen, in one small den, 
Swallowing slavery's most bitter pills ; 
A bear in bars unbearable ; and then, 
The fretful porcupine, with all its quills, 

Imprisoned in a pen ! 
A tiger limited to four feet ten ; 

And, still worse lot, 

A leopard to one spot ! 

An elephant enlarged, 

But not discharg'd. 

He went above — a solitary mounter 

Up gloomy stairs — and saw a pensive group 

Of hapless fowls — 

Cranes — vultures — owls — 
In fact it was a sort of poultry-compter, 
Where feather' d prisoners were doom'd to droop : 
Here sat an eagle, forced to make a stoop, 
Not from the skies, but his impending roof; 

And there aloof, 
A pining ostrich, moping in a coop ; 
With other samples of the bird creation, 
All caged against their powers and their wills; 
And cramped in such a space the longest bills 
Were plainly bills of least accommodation- — 
In truth, it was a very ugly scene 
To fall to any liberator's share. 

His temper little mended, 
Pug from his bird-cage walk at last descended 

Unto the lion and the elephant, 

His bosom in a pant 
To see all nature's free list thus suspended, 
And beasts deprived of what she had intended. 

They could not even prey 

In their own way ; 
A hardship always reckon'd quite prodigious. 



208 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Thus he revolved — 
And soon resolved 
To give them freedom, civil and religious. 

That night there were no country cousins, raw 
From Wales, to view the lion and his kin. 
The keeper's eyes were fix'd upon a saw ; 
The saw was fix'd upon a bullock's shin ; 
Meanwhile, with stealthy paw, 
Pug hasten'd to withdraw 
The bolt that kept the king of brutes within — 
Now, monarch of the forest ! thou shalt win 
Precious enfranchisement — thy bolts are undone- 
Thou art no longer a degraded creature, 
But loose to roam with liberty and nature, 
And free of all the jungles about London. 
Alas for freedom and for freedom's hero ! 

Alas for liberty of life and limb ! 
For pug had only half unbolted Nero, 

When Nero bolted him I 



SECTION LXXXII. 

BEN JONSON DRUMMOND Ibid. 

Jonson. Master Drummond, will you do me one special 
favour ? 

Drummond. Excellent sir, why do you ask ? shall not I, 
and all my household, bend the knee to the laureate ; the 
king of scholars and of bards? It is your part to com- 
mand, and ours to obey. 

Jons. Marry, sir, the favour I have to ask is but this : 
that you would order your serving men not to ring that 
great bell in the old tower at night ; and secondly, that you 
would prevent your clock in the outer hall from striking 
any more. What have we to do with the vulgar admeas- 
urement of time ? 

Drum. Your desire shall be implicitly fulfilled, and or- 
ders given forthwith. Formerly, indeed, I was an early 
riser, especially at this time, when the first of the spring 
season invites the birds to sing at break of day ; and I was 
as regular in my habits as any pleader in the courts of the 
city. But those humours had their sway, and are now 
worn out. What I once was I never shall be again. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 209 

Jons. My friend, you have laboured in the school of 
Petrarch, till even your ordinary conversation resembles 
one of his doloroso sonnets. Will the study of green leaves 
and singing birds ever make one a poet? 

Drum. With submission, sir, I still think that Petrarch 
is one of the noblest of these worthies with whom we are 
acquainted Misfortune, as you know, hath lately broken 
the dearest ties that bound me to mine own country. I 
intend, ere long, retracing your steps through France, and 
also going over into Italy. One of my chief objects there 
will be, to pay my devotions to his memory at Valclusa. 

Jons. Petrarch, sir, as I have often told you, was fit on- 
ly to be a mere monk or hermit of the desert, and was no 
poet. No man that ever had the genuine temperament of 
poetic fantasy, would voluntarily write sonnets, which are 
a species of cramho, suited only to the self-conceited mel- 
ancholiac, and deserving the execration of every wise critic. 
I cry you mercy ! That you are a sonnetteer, proceeds not 
from your natural bent, but from the force of bad example. 

Drum. Master Jonson, may I beg to remind you, that 
this is a subject on which we are not like ever to agree ? 
It had better therefore be dismissed. 

Jons. Willingly, my worthy friend. Now, I'll tell you 
what I like among the pleasure of your country-house : to 
hear the never-ceasing murmurs of the river, and the winds 
of night in blended music around us, (when we have lei- 
sure to listen to them,) only to make us enjoy a blazing 
iire and a can of sack with greater zest. I perceive clear- 
ly, that in your Italian humour you are most absolute. But 
it is only for your benefit that I have spoken. What ! am 
I not your countryman ? We have other bonds of sympa- 
thy besides those woven by the muses. 

Drum. I am well advised, sir, of your preference for 
the real employments and humours of men in the busy 
world, as the fittest subjects for poetry, but 

Jons. Aye, marry, if I took to king Arthur's story (as 
it hath frequently been mine intention) where the ground 
work may be all a fiction, yet I would have my characters 
speak, and act, and think like to living men and women. 

Drum. I doubt it not, sir; yet I continue, with sub- 
mission, to indulge somewhat of a different opinion. I en- 
joy mirth and good cheer and the society of friends. But 
on returning to my books, I love, for variety's sake, to 
change to an ideal world, to speak an artificial language, 
T 



210 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

v 

to move in the sphere of dreams and fantasy. In truth, 
what is there more shadowy, more subject to change, than 
that life which we term real? If we retire for a space to 
the quietness of fields and woods, and by reflection loosen 
the bonds of ordinary habit, how much then are we dis- 
posed to wonder at the dominion which this daily life has 
over us ! We then become willing to enter on a new course 
of thought — to believe that we hear unearthly voices, and 
voluntarily to cherish a waking dream, of which the utterance 
differs wholly from the usual language of men ! I love 
Shakspeare because he exemplified both styles of compo- 
sition. 

Jons. I grant that he did so, and, between ourselves, 
he will be a long liver with posterity. But the prevailing 
defect of Shakspeare is his want of learning. It would 
almost make the great white owl in your old tower laugh to 
hear of his blunders. 

Drum. In my judgment, sir, Shakspeare will be praised 
even for his sonnets alone, long after the most learned of our 
present writers are forgotten. I would say something in 
favour of Sir William Alexander ; but I do not, because 
friendship would make me partial. 

Jons. I say nothing of him, because he is your friend. 
And to your observation about Shakspeare, especially 
touching his sonnets, I have scarcely patience to answer. 
He ! he be celebrated when men of learning are forgotten 1 
But " De mortuis nil nisi bonum." 

Drum. Cry you mercy, sir ! You know that — you have 
yourself allowed — — - 

Jons. I know very well all that you would say. He 
wrote sonnets, and that is enough for you. But let me 
proceed. Can works that have no solid foundations to rest 
upon live longer than others — than mine own, for exam- 
ple, that are built on the rock of knowledge ;— on a philos- 
ophy drawn from all the worthies of antiquity, with plots, 
and narratives, and characters which are purely original 1 
Wait, I pray you, until I have returned to mine own study 
within the city walls. I have no greenfields, no singing 
birds, no purling streams there, Master Drummond ! Yet 
shall I celebrate your Loch Lomond in such manner that 
my poem shall flourish as long as there is water in the lake, 
or a tree in the forest. Wait until you have seen my Chro- 
logia — my worthies of England — the worthies of Scotland 
too ! — I shall not forget your Wallace nor your Bruce — nor 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 211 

yourself, Master Drummond. The impressions of your 
kindness, your friendship and your hospitality, will never 
from my heart ! * * * * 



SECTION LXXXIII. 

EXTRACT FROM AN ARTICLE ON MILTON Edinburgh 

Review. 

The principles of the revolution have often been grossly 
misrepresented, and never more than in the course of the 
present year. There is a certain class of men, who, while 
they profess to hold in reverence the great names and great 
actions of former times, never look at them for any other 
purpose than in order to find in them some excuse for ex- 
isting abuses. In every venerable precedent, they pass by 
what is essential, and take only what is accidental : they 
keep out of sight what is beneficial, and hold up to public 
imitation all that is defective. If, in any part of any great 
example, there be any thing unsound, these flesh-flies de- 
tect it with an unerring instinct, and dart upon it with a 
ravenous delight. They cannot always prevent the advo- 
cates of a good measure from compassing their end: but 
they feel, with their prototype, that 

* Their labours must be to pervert that end, 
And out of good still to find means of evil.' 

To the blessings which England has derived from the 
revolution, these people are utterly insensible. The ex- 
pulsiou of a tyrant, the solemn recognition of popular rights, 
liberty, security, toleration, all go for nothing with them. 
One sect there was, which, from unfortunate temporary 
causes, it was thought necessary to keep under close re- 
straint. One part of the empire there was, so unhappily 
circumstanced, that at that time its misery was necessary 
to our happiness, and its slavery to our freedom ! These 
are the parts of the revolution which the politicians of whom 
we speak love to contemplate, and which seem to them, 
not indeed to vindicate, but in some degree to palliate the 
good which it has produced. Talk to them of Naples, of 
Spain, or of South America! they stand forth, zealots for 
the doctrine of divine right — which has now come back to 
us, like a thief from transportation, under the alias of le- 



212 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

gitimacy. But mention the miseries of Ireland ! Then 
William is a hero. Then Somers and Shrewsbury are 
great men. Then the revolution is a glorious era ! The 
very same persons who, in this country, never omit an op- 
portunity of reviving every wretched Jacobite slander re- 
specting the whigs of that period, have no sooner crossed St. 
George's channel, than they begin to fill their bumpers to 
their glorious and immortal memory. They may truly boast 
that they look not at men, but at measures. 

The advocates of Charles, like the advocates of other 
malefactors against whom overwhelming evidence is pro- 
duced, generally decline all controversy about the facts, 
and content themselves with calling testimony to character. 
He had so many private virtues ! And had James II. no 
private virtues? Was even Oliver Cromwell, his bitterest 
enemies themselves being judges, destitute of private vir- 
tues ? And what, after all, are the virtues ascribed to 
Charles? A religious zeal, not more sincere than that 
of his son, and fully as weak and narrow-minded, and 
a few of the ordinary household decencies which half the 
tombstones in England claim for those who lie beneath 
them. A good father ! A good husband ! — Ample apolo- 
gies indeed for fifteen years of persecution, tyranny, and 
falsehood ! 

We charge him with having broken his coronation-oath 
— and we are told that he kept his marriage-vow ! We accuse 
him of having given up his people to the merciless inflictions 
of the most hot-headed and hard-hearted of prelates — and 
the defence is, that he took his little son on his knee and 
kissed him ! We censure him for having violated the arti- 
cles of the petition of right, after having, for good and 
valuable consideration, promised to observe them — and we 
are informed that he was accustomed to hear prayers at six 
o'clock in the morning ! It is to such considerations as 
these, together with his Vandyke dress, his handsome face, 
and his peaked beard, that he owes, we verily believe, most 
of his popularity with the present generation. 

For ourselves, we own that we do not understand the 
common phrase, a good man, but a bad king. We can as 
easily conceive a good man and an unnatural father, or a 
good man and a treacherous friend. We cannot, in esti- 
mating the character of an individual, leave out of our con- 
sideration his conduct in the most important of all human 
relations. And if, in that relation, we find him to have 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 213 

been selfish, cruel, and deceitful, we shall take the liberty 
to call him a bad man, in spite of all his temperance at ta- 
ble, and all his regularity at chapel. 



SECTION LXXXIV. * 

king of spain — a dissector Blackwood' s Magazine. 

King. I am come to your apartment, Mr. Dissector, be- 
cause I am desirous of examining the great work of the Cre- 
ator-Maw. You will, therefore, briefly demonstrate to me 
the anatomy of the human frame. 

Doctor. The honour conferred upon me by your maj- 
esty, is one for which I cannot be sufficiently grateful. But 
anatomy I fear is a study little calculated to afford pleasure 
to princes. It requires much labour and application, and 
is therefore better suited to an humble subject like myself, 
than a great king, like your majesty. 

King. You seem an old man, and must therefore have 
long studied your profession. 

Doct. My hair is gray, your majesty, less from age 
than from intense study and the duties of my profession. 
I have lived amid disease and death, and laboured in pov- 
erty and distress. My life has been an obscure one, yet I 
trust not quite useless to my fellow-creatures. It has been — 

King, Enough ! you will now proceed to the demon- 
strations I require of you. The body I perceive is cov- 
ered. 

Doct. Nothing can escape the penetration of your 
rnajesty—I feared the sight might be too shocking, and 
I 

King. You are mistaken, let the covering be removed. 
Where did you procure this body ? 

Doct. It is the body of a galley slave, who died with- 
out receiving extreme unction, and was therefore denied 
the rites of christian burial, and sent thither for dissection. 
These are the features of Arguelles — your majesty may 
perhaps remember him. He was the*chief of the traitor- 
ous Cortes, who betrayed your majesty and their country, 
during the unfortunate interregnum caused by the invasion 
of the French. 

King. He never came to court, and I do not remember 
to have seen him ; but I well know he was an enemy to 
T 2 



214 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

our holy church, which he attempted to ruin by the over- 
throw of the inquisition. For this he was condemned to 
the galleys — a punishment only too lenient for such a 
crime. I had forgotten him, but I now wish to receive . 
some further information with regard to him. 

.Doct. He was a man, your majesty, of noble and 
various attainments. He possessed a grand and power- 
ful eloquence, which even those who condemned his rea- 
soning could not hear unmoved. His learning was extra- 
ordinary, though unprofitable ; for he read the works of 
heretics who wrote on liberty and emancipation, and they 
wrought in his brain like madness. The absence of your 
majesty, and the troubles of the kingdom unfortunately af- 
forded him a theatre on which he was well qualified to act. 
He became a member of the Cortes, in which he found 
many enemies, but no rival. Yet even these were influ- 
enced by his talents, and with freedom on his lips, and 
revolution in his heart, he led the Cortes to betray their 
king, their country, and their religion. Time was when 
I could not have borne to behold his body thus exposed, 
for he was my friend, and I loved him as a brother. 

King. Inform me what became of his family. 

Doct. His wife died young, and left him but one son, 
whom he loved with even more than a father's love, and to 
whose education he devoted much of his time. On the 
return of your majesty, it was found that he had become a 
convert to the doctrines, and a party to the schemes of his 
father; and he too, was sentenced by your majesty to the 
galleys. 

King. It was wisely done, for the breed of traitors and 
heretics must be extinguished before Spain can again be 
what she has been. Where milder arguments fail, a gib- 
bet, or the galleys generally carry conviction ; and, at all 
events, they prevent the spreading of the disease. I wish 
to know in what spirit Arguelles submitted to his punish- 
ment — and in what temper he died. 

Doct. He often talked wildly, and imprecated blas- 
phemous curses on your majesty, which filled all who heard 
them with horror. For this crime he was publicly flogged, 
and he became insane, and soon afterwards died. As he 
had never recanted his heresies, he was denied the rites of 
burial, and his father dug a pit with his own hands and 
laid his body in it. Arguelles, however, seemed little 
moved with his fate ; indeed, the only smile I ever saw on 
his face was when I told him of his son's death. When 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 215 

pressed by the priest to confess and receive absolution, he 
rejected it, nor would he declare in what faith he died. His 
religion, he said, was what only concerned himself, he had 
already confessed his sins to God, and in his mercy alone 
he trusted for absolution. His body, after death, was sent 
thither. 

King. I have heard enough of him. Proceed Mr. Dis- 
sector to cut him up. 



SECTION LXXXV. 

EXTRACT FROM MR. BROUGHAM'S SPEECH ON THE FOREIGN 
POLICY OF ENGLAND. 

I would now call the attention of the noble lord in the 
blue ribbon, to some things which, though within his de- 
partment, it is very possible he may not be aware of; be- 
cause it is quite possible, that those military gentlemen 
whom he has planted as ministers and consuls in different 
places, how skilled soever in their own profession, may 
have failed to make any reports upon commercial arrange- 
ments, as things very much out of their line, if not below 
their notice. Does the noble lord now hear, for the first 
time, and, if he does, I am sure it should make a deep im- 
pression on his mind, that punishment has so swiftly fol- 
lowed guilt ? Does he for the first time hear, that the fruits 
have already been gathered of the two worst acts in that 
system of wicked policy of which the noble lord is the ad- 
vocate in this house, as he was the adviser elsewhere — that 
the very persons, in whose behalf those deeds were done, 
have even now set themselves in direct hostility to the 
interests of this country ? If he has not before heard this, 
it may prove a useful lesson to him, and, I trust, it will not 
be thrown away upon public men generally, if I make 
known how those very individuals, for whose sake the noble 
lord sacrificed the honour of his country, and abandoned 
its soundest policy towards foreign states ; those with whom 
after pulling down the usurper, he plunged into the deepest 
of all the public crimes that stained his course, and gave 
the ground for resisting him — that they now execrate or 
contemn the man who made himself the accomplice of their 
infamous projects 1 I suspect the noble lord's conscience 
already whispers to what I allude. I guess he is aware that 



216 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

I am going to name Ragusa and Genoa — Ragusa and Ge- 
noa4 where the name of England received a stain, that all 
our victories cannot wipe away, nor the services of the 
longest life of the greatest minister that ever lived could 
atone for. I will speak of Ragusa first : it is the smaller 
state, and, for that reason, I dwell upon it the most ; be- 
cause, if there be such a thing as political morality and 
political justice — if those words have any sense — they can 
only mean, that the rights and the liberties of the weaker 
states are to be protected by the more powerful ; because, 
in the nature of things, public crime, the offence of one 
nation against another, must always consist of the strong 
trampling down the feeble. Have we not, without the 
least regard to the rights of a free people, parcelled out 
their country at our own discretion ; and, from the liberty 
they were enjoying and the independence they were proud 
of, delivered them over to what they deemed subjugation and 
tyranny ? Had they, the Ragusans, the people of Ragusa, 
the smallest share in the deliberations of the famous con- 
gress ? They had no minister there — they had made no 
communication to the assembled negotiators — they had re- 
ceived none from thence. Their existence was hardly 
known, except by the gallant example they had set of 
shaking off, without any aid, the hated empire of France. 
And how did we requite them for this noble effort — nay, 
this brilliant service in what we cantingly termed " the 
common cause of nations ?" We, who had sounded to the 
uttermost corners of the earth, the alarum of Bonaparte's 
ambition— we, who could never be satiated with invective 
against his despotism and injustice — we, who, in the name 
of freedom and independence, had called on the people of 
the whole globe, and on the Ragusans among the rest, and 
they at least had answered the summons, to rise up against 
him and overthrow his usurped dominion — we requited 
them by handing them over, in the way of barter, as slaves, 
to a power of which they detested the yoke ! — But let 
the noble lord, and let this house, and let the world mark 
the retribution which has followed this flagitious act. 
Austria, extending her commercial regulations to all her 
new acquisitions, has absolutely shut our trade out of that 
very Ragusa, which we had betrayed into her hands ; and 
thus has the noble lord received his punishment upon the 
spot on which he had so shamefully sacrificed the honour 
of his country ! 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 217 

Sir, if any page in the history of the late congress be 
blacker than another, it is that which records the deeds of 
the noble lord against Genoa. When I approach this sub- 
ject, and reflect on the powerful oratory, the force of argu- 
ment as well as of language, backed by the high authority 
of virtue, a sanction ever deeply felt in this house, once 
displayed in the cause of that ill-fated republic, by tongues 
now silent, but which used to be ever eloquent where public 
justice was to be asserted, or useful truth fearlessly incul- 
cated, I feel hardly capable of going on. My lasting sor- 
row for the loss we have sustained is made deeper by the 
regret, that those lamented friends live not to witness the 
punishment of that foul conduct which they solemnly de- 
nounced. The petty tyrant, to whom the noble lord deliv- 
ered over that ancient and gallant people, almost as soon as 
they had at his call joined the standard of national inde- 
pendence, has since subjected them to the most rigorous 
provisions of his absurd code ; a code directed especially 
against the commerce of this country, and actually less 
unfavourable to France. 

Thus, then, it appears that, after all, in public as well as 
in private, in state affairs as in the concerns of the most 
humble individuals, the old maxim cannot safely be forgot- 
ten, that " honesty is the best policy." In vain did the 
noble lord natter himself, that his subserviency to that un- 
righteous system of the congress would secure him the ad- 
herence of the courts whom he made his idols. If he had 
abandoned that false, foreign system — if he had acted upon 
the principles of the nation whom he represented, and stood 
forward as the advocate of the rights of the people — the 
people would have been grateful. He preferred the inter- 
ests and the wishes of the courts ; and by the courts he is 
treated with their w r onted neglect. 



SECTION LXXXVI. 

eribert — anselmo Mrs. Hemans. 

Anselmo. Will you not hear me ? — Oh ! that they who 
need 
Hourly forgiveness — they who do but live, 
While mercy's voice, beyond th' eternal stars, 
Wins the great judge to listen, should be thus, 



218 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

In their vain exercise of pageant power, 
Hard and relentless ! — Gentle brother, yet, 
'Tis in your choice to imitate that heaven 
Whose noblest joy is pardon. 

Eribert. 'Tis too late. 

You have a soft and moving voice, which pleads 
With eloquent melody — but they must die. 

Ansel. What, die ! — for words ? — for breath, which leaves 
no trace 
To sully the pure air, wherewith it blends, 
And is, being utter'd, gone ? — Why, 'twere enough 
For such a venial fault, to be deprived 
One little day of man's free heritage, 
Heaven's warm and sunny light ! — Oh ! if you deem 
That evil harbours in their souls, at least 
Delay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest, 
Shall bid stern justice wake. 

Eri. I am not one 

Of those weak spirits, that timorously keep watch 
For fair occasions, thence to borrow hues 
Of virtue for their deeds. My school hath been 
Where power sits crown'd and arm'd. And, mark me, 

brother ! 
To a distrustful nature it might seem 
Strange, that your lips thus earnestly should plead 
For these Sicilian rebels. O'er my being 
Suspicion holds no power. And yet take note. 
— I have said— and they must die. 

Ansel. Have you no fear ? 

Eri. Of what ? — that heaven should fall ? 

Ansel. No ! — but that earth 

Should arm in madness. Brother ! I have seen 
Dark eyes bent on you, e'en 'midst festal throngs, 
With such deep hatred settled in their glance, 
My heart hath died within me. 

Eri. Am I then 

To pause, and doubt, and shrink, because a boy, 
A dreaming boy, hath trembled at a look ? 

Ansel. Oh ! looks are no illusions, when the soul, 
Which may not speak in words, can find no way 
But theirs, to liberty ! — Have not these men 
Brave sons, or noble brothers 1 

Eri. Yes ! whose name 

It rests with me to make a word of fear, 
A sound forbidden 'midst the haunts of men. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 219 

Ansel. But not forgotten ! — Ah ! beware, beware ! 
— Nay, look not sternly on me. There is one 
Of that devoted band, who yet will need 
Years to be ripe for death. He is a youth, 
A very boy, on whose unshaded cheek 
The spring-time glow is lingering. 'Twas but now 
His mother left me, with a timid hope 
Just dawning in her breast ; — and I — I dared 
To foster its faint spark. You smile ! — Oh ! then 
He will be saved ! 

Eri. Nay, I but smiled to think 

What a fond fool is hope ! — She may be taught 
To deem that the great sun will change his course 
To work her pleasure ; or the tomb give back 
Its inmates to her arms. In sooth, 'tis strange ! 
Yet with your pitying heart, you should not thus 
Have mock'd the boy's sad mother — I have said, 
You should not thus have mock'd her ! — Now, farewell. 

[Exit Eribert, 

Ansel. Oh, brother ! hard of heart ! — for deeds like these 
There must be fearful chastening, if on high 
Justice doth hold her state. And I must tell 
Yon desolate mother that her fair young son 
Is thus to perish ! — Haply the dread tale 
May slay her too ; — for heaven is merciful. 
— 'Twill be a bitter task ! 



SECTION LXXXVII. 

EXTRACT FROM MR. NORTH'S SPEECH ON THE CATHOLIC 
QUESTION, 182S. 

The honourable member began by stating, that this 
measure of government was insufficient, as not creating 
complete and unexceptionable securities for preserving the 
established church from those ulterior assaults with which it 
was threatened. Allow me to say, that the honourable 
member has not put the argument with that fairness which 
candid discussion demands, and which ought always to 
govern the deliberations of parliament. The question is, 
not whether we have obtained any new securities by means 
of this measure, but whether we have parted with any se- 
curities which we formerly possessed. I trust it will not 



220 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

be imagined, that I am lukewarm in my attachment to the 
established church. I do not yield to any man in zeal for 
the established church, and least of all would I yield to any 
man in zeal for the prosperity and integrity of that portion 
of it which is established in Ireland. I am attached to it 
and to its members by the warmest feelings of our nature, 
by the earliest emotions that animate my breast, by close 
friendship, by gratitude, and by cordial affection. If I be- 
lieved that, in making these concessions, we were parting 
with any real existing security, I would sooner part with my 
right hand than give my support to any such measure. But 
can I believe that that which in Ireland is treated as the 
cause of undeserved humiliation on the one hand, and of 
unworthy superiority on the other, could not long exist in a 
state of security 1 Can 1 believe that it is for the advantage 
of the established church, that it should be regarded as the 
cold, dark, and chilling obstacle which interposed between 
the people and the beams of royal favour, which crosses 
every man in the road of industry and of honour — which 
is regarded as forming an insurmountable barrier to the 
advancement of every class among the Roman Catholics — 
which says to them, " You shall be excluded from the 
common blessings of society, you shall not be partakers of 
the common prosperity of that country whose common bur- 
thens you bear. Is there not then, an inconceivable in- 
crease of security given to the established church, by throw- 
ing down those barriers which have so long stood in the 
way of the Catholics, and pronouncing that the reformed 
church shall no longer be an object of popular detestation, 
hatred, hostility, and envy 1 Does it not impart security to 
the established church, to give content to those classes who 
feel religion as a necessity of their nature ? Does it not 
give security to that establishment to inspire feelings of 
mutual confidence and regard, among all classes of his 
majesty's subjects, be their religious persuasion what it 
may ? 

The present state of Ireland, I can speak from my own 
actual observation, conduces to very different feelings and 
principles. It plucks out the heart of religion, which is 
charity ; it sets man against man ; it puts a canker into 
every heart; and, if it be long-continued, it will, I fear, 
put a dagger into every hand. Gracious God ! is it for the 
interests of religion and of that church which professes to 
be united in its spirit and feeling with religion, that men 
of high rank among the clergy should descend from their 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 221 

pulpits, and mixing with the multitude, occupy the time 
that ought to be devoted to the sacred duties of their pro- 
fession, in inflaming the angry passions of the people, and 
familiarizing their minds with the horrors of a civil war.? 
Is conduct such as this sanctioned by the tenets of the 
christian religion, or necessary for maintaining the estab- 
lished church in Ireland r Can I believe that the tenets 
of that church are only to be maintained at the expense of 
public tranquillity ? I may be allowed, as a native of that 
country, and after surveying the conduct of its people for a 
series of years, to say, without any feeling of prejudice, 
and with no feelings, I believe, of partiality — and certain 
1 am, that if any partiality does belong to my feelings and 
affections, it is for my Protestant rather than for my Roman 
Catholic countrymen — to tell the honourable gentleman, 
that it is not possible, if the situation of Ireland remains 
such as it has been for the last twenty years, that it can be 
compatible with the tranquillity of the people ; and I will 
tell the honourable gentleman further, that I believe firmly 
that if any people on the face of the globe could have been 
governed as Ireland has been, they would be as much dis- 
satisfied as the Irish themselves. 



SECTION LXXXVI1L 

EXTRACT FROM THE SAME. 

Let me, sir, offer a few w T ords of consolation to the hon- 
ourable gentleman as to the result of this question. Sir, I 
will ask any Irish gentleman, where Protestant ascendency, 
about which they talk so much, has been to be found 
for the last fifteen years. Let them ask the merchant 
whether it is to be found on the exchange — let them ask 
the lawyer whether it is to be found in the four courts — let 
them ask the country gentleman whether it is to be found 
on the hustings? I answer for them — no. The Protestant 
ascendency, which those Protestant gentlemen worship so 
devoutly, is, in fact, a visionary being — without substance, 
impalpable, and of no account : it is like the ghost of one 
long since in the grave ; or if it does exist, it exists only to 
distract the judgment, to deceive the heart, and to confound 
the imagination. But this is not all ; along with it the 
U 



222 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

same gentlemen are equally alarmed, because they believe 
that in concurring in this measure they would be confeiring 
a gift : but I will tell them that the belief is as vision- 
ary as the Protestant ascendency which is the object of 
their admiration. " What," say they, " are we now to be 
called upon to confer honours and liberty on the Catholics, 
and at this crisis, when the king's ministers have been sub- 
dued by their intimidation and their threats V But though 
these gentlemen talk of giving power to the Catholics, I 
will tell them, that it is not in their power to make that gift ; 
the Catholics of Ireland possess a power beyond theirs — a 
power independently of theirs — a power that, though we 
have not called it into existence, we may at least hope, with 
proper care, to regulate, since it does exist. In the course 
of the debate upon this question, there have been a good 
many allusions to what has been called " brute force," and 
military power. Sir, I might follow up this allusion by 
telling the honourable gentleman who used the expression 
that the question is, Whether we are to extinguish the brute 
but energetic power of the Catholic multitude of Ireland, 
or whether we are to enlist it, with all its strength and all 
its magnitude, into the service of the state 1 I might tell 
him, that the question is, Whether that force is to be turned, 
through despair, to unlawful purposes, or whether it is to be 
made to contribute to the prosperity and happiness of the 
whole empire? An honourable gentleman who has spoken 
this evening against the measure, has adverted to the bill 
which the legislature has just passed, for the purpose of 
putting down the Catholic association. Now, sir, I must 
beg leave to tell that honourable gentleman that there was 
no part of his speech that did not manifest the most entire 
ignorance of the actual condition of Ireland; and above all 
did the honourable gentleman display his ignorance when 
he spoke of this measure as the price paid for the putting 
down of the Catholic association. Does that honourable 
gentleman think, in his ignorance, that the Catholic as- 
sociation and agitation are the same, and may be used 
synonymously I I can tell the honourable gentleman this- — 
the doors of the Catholic association may be shut up — its 
orators, from the first to the last, may be silenced— but still 
the direst agitation may exist and flourish. Will they still 
let the tribunals of Ireland be open 1 If they will, then still 
will there be open a theatre for agitation. A father brings his 
action into court : it is for the seduction of his daughter — a 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 223 

circumstance wholly domestic, and apparently unconnected 
with anything public ; but no sooner does it make its appear- 
ance, than it is taken up as a political case, and the streets 
of the capital are crowded with persons taking a feverish 
interest in the decision. An Irish magistrate summons a 
rioter, or a man for an assault, to appear before him : in 
his official capacity he either takes or refuses bail for his 
appearance ; he may have decided right or wrong ; but 
whichever way it may be, it occasions a discussion of the 
Catholic question. Is the honourable gentleman ignorant, 
that if his measure — his unexplained measure, I believe I 
must call it — should have the effect of shutting up the doors 
of the Catholic association, it will still leave open the door 
of every Catholic chapel in Ireland ? Does he believe that 
there is no popular priest ready to ascend the pulpit in such 
a cause, or that he will be listened to with the less atten- 
tion, because he directs one hand towards the silent orators 
of the association, while with the other he points to the 
altars of their common faith, which are also the emblems 
of their common suffering. Sir, 1 tell the honourable gen- 
tleman, it is not the Catholic association — it is not this man 
or that — upon whom the question depends. Destroy the 
individuals as often as you please, and others will as often 
spring up in their places ; or if the association itself be de- 
stroyed, other scenes of agitation will be opened. For 
these things there is but one remedy, one complete, all suf- 
ficient remedy — and it is that which the wisdom and pru- 
dence of the government, and the gracious kindness and 
condescension of the sovereign, have proposed. The Cath- 
olic association will be extinguished when it is transferred 
to this house. Bring it here 1 Let us graft their wild and 
energetic shoots on our more mature and nurtured English 
stock, and rely upon it, of the fruit which it will produce 
you need not be ashamed. 



SECTION LXXXIX. 

MOSES CALEB JOCHANI MAMRI RAMPSINITIS. 

Anonymous. 

Caleb. Is it thy will, that longer we remain 
Upon this mountain's summit ? Lo ! young day 
Doth wearily unclose his sleepy eye, 



224 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

For slowly comes the radiance which it sheds 

On our oppressed land ! No joy to Jacob 

Brings the bright sun-beam ; for, with his first glance, 

Comes the fierce tasker, and with goad and lash. 

Drives to the stubble-field the weeping race 

Of him, Jehovah's chosen, the loved friend 

Of angels, and of spirits ! Their bound limbs 

Are tortur'd by the beam, their free-born sires 

Were wont to court and bless ; and when they sink 

Worn by th' intolerable burthen down, 

The scorpion-whip doth lash them to new life, 

Or rob them of the wretched remnant left. 

But let us down, and bid them stand prepared, 

Nor murmur when they are required to raise 

New treasure-domes for Pharaoh. 

Moses, (not heeding him.) Yes, thou art 

The terrible ! the just ! — The might of man, 
What is it, Lord, before thee ! Thou dost close 
Thine eye of glory, and dark night descends ; 
Thou ope'st it, and 'tis light. Thy breathing is 
The rage of tempests ; and thy face, O God, 
Who can behold and live ! 

Caleb. Jehovah's hand 

Is on his servant now. From his pale brow 
Darts forth the mystic light, whose lustrous blaze 
Scorches my human eye-balls. His high form 
Becomes gigantic, and his clustering locks, 
Darker than night, swept by the mighty spirit, 
Wave in wild motion, and their homage pay 
To the invisible presence of the power 
Which every where surrounds him. 

Moses. Hark ! he comes ! 

The one ! — the terrible ! — the Lord of wo I 
The angel of his terrors ! — On the air 
I hear the rushing of his mighty wings; 
His broad palm bears the darkness, the dire pall 
Of miserable Egypt ! — hark ! he comes ! — 
Wo, to thee, Egypt, wo. 

Caleb. It is the spirit, 

The over-ruling, which is passing o'er us ! — 
The day is bright and clear ; yet in the air, 
I hear the sound of tempests. All the winds 
Girdle his chariot wheels. My brow is cold, 
My breath is thick, and o'er my quivering limbs 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 225 

Breaks the damp glow of fear! I will fall down, 
Nor see him pass above me. 

Moses, Hail ! O hail ! 

Thou Lord of judgment ! — Lo ! he comes ; but not 
In light-created vestments, nor his brow 
Circled by fire ethereal, nor his form 
Shooting forth sparkles of immortal light, 
Each one a brilliant day ; but now he rides 
The stern submissive whirlwind, in his purpose 
Robed as in some dark garment, like the cloak 
Which ancient chaos wore, before the smile 
Of God, illumining the dark abyss, 
Created light. He comes, the terrible 1 
In judgment mantled dark, as darkest death ! 
Before him horror, and behind despair! 
Prepare, O Israel, gird your loins, O Jacob ! 
For now, with the strong arm of power, your God 
Doth break your chains, and draw ye forth from bondage : 
Now will he show his glory and his terrors ! 
And thus I stretch mine arm towards the heavens, 
And thus I summon from his icy throne, 
The pale, cold king, to pour out his chill breath 
On miserable Egypt. Come, O come, 
Come with thy crown of icicles around 
Thy beauteous snowy brow, — Come with thy look 
Of still calm majesty — motionless lip 
And eye, bright as the crystal, and as still, — 
Come, robed in silence, duskiness, and fear, 
And with thy sceptre goad thy phantom steed, 
Who tramps with noiseless step upon the air 
The faster for the touch, which human power 
May not endure, and live. Come, Lord of shades, 
I call thee by the power of him who reigns 
O'er thee, and hath permitted thy dread being, 
As the stern doer of his mighty will, 
The servant of his vengeance. Come, O come, 
I call thee, king of death, approach and strike 
All the first-born of Egypt ! 

It is done 1 
Wo, wo, unutterable wo ! 

Caleb. O, hark : 

Whence, leader, is that melancholy sound, 
That heavy groan ? 

Moses. It is a kingdom's voice, 

Lamenting o'er her first born. I can hear 
T 2 



226 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



The quick sob of maternal agony, 
The shriek of female anguish ; and I see 
The stern grief of the father, who beholds 
The ruin of his hopes — his first born son 
Laid still and cold before him — he is silent, 
For the proud sorrow is too mighty for 
The feeble war of words. O mournful sight ! 
The bosom of each mother is, ere now, 
The grave of her sweet son ; — for there it lies 
The wither'd lotus, on the mourning stream, 
From whence it drew its life and nourishment. 

[Enter Jochani. 

Jochani. Hence, from our bleeding land ! King Pha- 
raoh sends 
His hasty mandate to ye — speed ye hence, 
As swiftly as ye may ! this blighted land 
Will long remember Israel , his name 
May parallel with Typhon's — from the throne 
Unto the lowliest hut, the owner's heart 
Bears in deep characters of blood, the name 
Indelible of Jacob. [Enter Marnri. 

Mamri. Fly from Egypt, 

Fly, while our king yet lives — our people send 
Their riches now to bribe your swift departure. 
Here are the gems ye ask'd for, silver, gold, 
Treasures incalculable, all the heaps 
That Egypt hath for ages call'd her own, 
Take them, and get ye gone ! [Enter Rampsinitis. 

Rampsinitis. The sacrifice 

Unto your awful God is made ! Look there ! 
Mine own, mine eldest born ! O, go — go, go, 
Lest Pharaoh change — lest I, in madness, rush 
Upon thy first born, Jacob ! My sweet child ! — 
The gory drink, the livid boils, the hail, 
The lurid lightning, tenant of the air, 
That did domesticate itself on earth, 
And walk'd upon her bosom ! Locusts, fear, 
Famine, and darkness, all, unshrinkingly 
I bore ! But this — O, this ! — Begone ! for I 
Have yet another son ! 

Moses, Jehovah heal 

Thy bitter sorrows ! — Israel, onward now, 
The God of Abraham guides thee ! Yea, behold 
He comes in visible form to lead ye forth 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 227 

Through the drear wilderness, and stranger lands — 
Yea, tremble, Jacob, bow thee to the dust, 
And kiss the earth, now doubly sanctified 
By his Almighty presence. In yon cloud 
He hides his terrors from your human eyes, 
And only shows his mercy ! — Forward, Israel, 
With fearless heart, and firm-set foot advance, 
Follow your mighty leader ; as ye go, 
Charm his immortal ear with humble praise, 
And heart-felt gratitude for boundless mercy ! 



SECTION XC. 

RAMPSINITIS DESCRIBING THE PLAGUE TO PHARAOH Ibid. 

Son of the ancient word, eldest of kings ! 

Let not the lightning of thy wrath destroy 

The lowliest of thy servants, if he pray 

That, in thy wisdom, thou betray not scorn 

Against that God of terrors. Thou dost know him, 

And Egypt trembles still, e'en midst this darkness, 

At the remember'd horrors of his might. 

Knew she not him amidst the horrid plague 

Of the fierce murrain, which destroyed her flocks, 

Broke loathsome on our bodies, struck our wives, 

Smote our young babes, and made even these proud men, 

These magic-rampired sages, flee for shame, 

And hide their livid bodies from the scorn, 

That sternly laugh' d within the heaven-lit eye 

Of Nile's adopted son 1 — Oh knew she not 

The God, by this no stranger, in the storm 

On which he rode, when scattering the hail, 

He lit the sons of Egypt to their graves 

By flames of lurid lightning. — But, O king ! 

If not for fear, at least for pity, hear 

The voice of Israel's leader; — look upon 

The sufferings of thy people, for thy sake 

Plunged in unutterable wo. The plague 

So sudden fell upon them, that no thought 

Was taken for their safety — in the fields 

Were many when it fell, and they sunk down, 

E'en in the spot it found them, and expired, 

Believing the red fiend had broken loose 



228 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

From his hard bondage in the Sirbon lake, 

And, with its pois'nous exhalations, ehoaked 

The wholesome breath of earth. And there was one 

Who crawl'd through that black mist — an only son, 

To meet his mother, for he heard her voice 

Guiding him to her side, — he crawl'd and, crept, 

Until, when to a precipice he came, 

He thought he grasp'd her garment — it was nought 

But the thick air he caught-— he slipp'd, and dash'd 

Hundreds of fathoms down, o'er pointed rocks, 

'Gainst which his mangled body struck, ere he, 

Blown by mirac'lous tempests to and fro, 

Reach'd his terrific bed, the boiling wave ; — 

His horrid shriek broke on his mother's ear, 

And with it — sure in mercy — on her soul 

Roll'd wild insanity ; and now she goes 

Crawling and groping through the dull, black air, 

For that same spot from whence her darling fell, 

Meaning to tread that path ; and then, when fails 

Her wearied strength, and she has found it not, 

Still from her bosom heaves the same sad sound — 

" It is not here ! it is not here !" — and then 

Bursts from her lips the echo of that scream, 

Which she, unconscious of her loss, believes 

Is utter'd by her son to guide her steps 

Unto the spot which shelters him. There was 

Another wretch, who, crouching to the earth, 

Sat, in a toad-like form, within a cave, 

And shriek'd herself to death with horrid fear 

At the strange shapes her madden'd fancy had 

Conjured from out the darkness. Some there are, 

Fainting for hunger, hear their infants' cries, 

Yet cannot find them food, nor reach the spot, 

To yield the comfort that their fond embrace 

To the poor babes might give. The husband cries 

In vain upon his wife — for, distant far, 

Despairing e'er again to reach her home, 

In the wide street she perishes, and dies 

Calling upon her husband! Some are struck 

By suffocation in their homes, and there 

The wretched carcases pollute the air, 

And so, corrupting in their houses, bring 

The other plague, the pestilence, upon us ; — 

And thus at once to darkness, famine, grief, 

And the swift-footed mischief of disease, 

By thy decree, O king, are we resign'd. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 229 

SECTION XCI. 

machiavel — jerome Blackwood's Magazine. 

Machiavel. Ha ! Jerome, are you there 1 Reach me 
your hand once more. It is all over with me. 

Jerome. This despondency should not be allowed so 
easy a victory. You have been enjoying the advantage of 
sleep. 

Mack. Scarcely. I had a strange fancy just now. I 
thought I was standing at a certain place, from whence 
there was a view of the road which leads up to the gates 
of paradise, and also of the road which leads down to the 
infernal regions. Upon each of these roads I saw a crowd 
passing along, and felt much interest in observing of what 
sort of individuals it was composed. 

Jer. What sort of persons were those on the road lead- 
ing to paradise ? 

Mach. Poor ill-favoured rogues — half-starved, weather- 
worn, ragged, and thin-blooded. The very refuse of the 
earth, at least what are counted so. They seemed as if 
they had but newly escaped from a hail-storm of earthly 
misery and contempt, which had bent down their shoulders, 
and rent their garments to tatters. Beggars, slaves, and 
simple fools, who had remained honest after being counted 
knaves ; homely rustics, who could scarcely have out-wit- 
ted their own watch-dogs ; sober mechanics, such as are 
known to the world only by the shoes they produce ; bell- 
men of convents ; but few priors ; and, in short, such a 
company as brought me in mind of the text, " Beati pau- 
peres quoniam ipsorum est regnum ceelorum." 

Jer. But what had these persons done, more than oth- 
ers, to entitle them to admission at St. Peter's gate. 

Mach. The same question occurred to myself, when I 
saw the apostle stretch forth his hands to such a homely 
group, and, with a smiling countenance, help such as were 
feeble and drooping to ascend the few steps which led up 
to his massive portal. 

Jer. And was your curiosity satisfied ? 

Mach. The valves were thrown open, and a breeze rush- 
ing out upon the new comers, suddenly removed the squalor 
and sickliness of their appearance, so that they went in, as 
fresh and joyous as so many winged children painted by 
Correggio. In the meantime, the apostle, perceiving my 



230 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

astonishment, cried out to me, " The principal merit of 
these people consists in having spent their lives without be- 
traying any turn for mischief. Persons like them are the 
only ones capable of allowing paradise to remain a paradise 
after their arrival. As to the plainness of their understand- 
ings it is no disadvantage, since it enables them to be happy 
without asking how or wherefore ; and because, in heaven, 
there is no need of circumventing each other. 

Jer. Certainly not. But whom did you see upon the 
other road ? 

Mach. Let me first tell what more conversation I had 
with St. Peter. I asked him if all the searching faculties, 
and ambitious stirrings of human nature, must then be con- 
sidered as pernicious, and if so, why was man endowed 
with them ? He replied, he knew not how man came to be 
endowed with them, but that we had an opportunity of 
feeling their effects upon earth, and were able to judge of 
them for ourselves. 

Jer. Alas ! it is true that the history of mankind says 
little in their favour. 

Mach. When he had replied in this manner, I was 
piqued at the notion that happiness could only be found 
among persons of humble spirits and shallow understand- 
ings ; and I turned away from the apostle to look at those 
who were passing along the other road. 

Jer. Well, and who were they ? 

Mach. Popes, cardinals, kings, heroes, counsellors, and 
ambitious persons of every sort. The road shone with gold 
and purple, and these venerable figures, with long beards, 
did nothing but discourse of state affairs as they went 
along. All of them had the appearance of profound sagac- 
ity, and carried great wrinkled foreheads to the place of 
their destination. A company so august had evidently va- 
cated many palaces and cabinets. There was no individual 
in the procession who had not left mankind smarting, to 
make them remember him, and preserve his busts, por- 
traits, and medallions. 

Jer. Did you observe any of your contemporaries among 
them? 

Mach. I observed no person there, who would have done 
good elsewhere. 

Jer. And what thought you, upon witnessing this spec- 
tacle, so different from the last? 

Mach. I turned again to St. Peter, and cried with a 
loud voice, that surely there would be more satisfaction in 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 231 

conversing with an assemblage of men, so noble, wise, and 
famous, than with a common herd of mechanics and sim- 
pletons. 

Jer. Right. There lies the problem. 

3Iach. The apostle replied, that these men could not 
endure a state of repose ; and having no longer the humble 
and well-meaning part of their species to practise upon, 
they would infallibly become the tormentors of each other. 

Jer. Did you perceive where their march terminated ? 

Mach. Yes. Their path, as they advanced, grew more and 
more rugged, bursting into cracks, from whence issued in- 
fernal fire ; and the crowd which formerly walked with de- 
corum, and in good order, was now seen hurrying along, arm 
in arm with fiends and demons. I heard loud huzzas and 
outcries, and the whole was soon lost in obscurity. 

Jer. You have been reflecting with distaste upon some 
of the occupations of your past life, and your chagrin has 
produced this feverish dream. 

Mach. No, Jerome, my nature is the same as ever ; and 
unless Heaven mend me, I suspect I shall hardly gain ad- 
mittance to the abode of St. Peter. 



SECTION XCII. 

sammael's address to the fallen angels. 
Anonymous. 

Spirits, whose birth-place is the highest heaven, 
Whose home is in Gehenna's awful star, 
Usurpers of earth's altars — earthly gods ! 
Or how shall I address you ? — Revellers ? 
Minions of gaudy light, who love the sun, 
And dare to bask ye in his beams of glory ? 
Or fiends of darkness? — for like such ye look— 
Ye have of late forgotten w 7 hose ye are, 
Your proper functions and dark destiny ; 
Ye have become ambitious and refined; 
Genii of virtues and moralities — 
Spirits of pomps and places — deities 
Of actions, passions, elements ; — array'd 
In all that charms the eye and soothes the sense. 
Ye ransack nature for ambrosial tastes, 
And decompose the sun-beams for attire. 



232 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Courting repose and vain forgetfulness, 

Ye slumber on soft breezes and fresh flowers; — 

And dwell apart, or meeting as earth's gods, 

Make honour mean, with mutual reverence — 

Rarely with man — or, if ye walk the world, 

'Tis to seek fanes and votarists, not victims. 

Was it for this, Spirits accurst ! — for this 

I lost celestial empire ? — To establish 

On earth a sensual sty for craven fiends! — 

Was it for this ? that ye may dwell s*ecure 

In light, I may not look un withered on. 

Earth lacks not revellers; that such as you 

Should lift their owl eyes to the glorious day, 

And mock its noon of beauty with most foul 

And phantom aspects ! — Denizens of hell, 

Ye are not for this earth, or earth for you ; 

Your proper home awaits her truant sons 

With love, though long forgotten, unconsumed. 

'Tis not the fuming altar, festal chant, 

The solemn pomp, the wreathed sacrifice, 

Can make ye that ye are not — heroes — gods. 

Can flattery vanquish fate, and lies repel 

The eternal edict, which, once heard, even yet 

Rings o'er the gulf of many a thousand years 

Redemption to our victims, — wo to us? 

In vain ye blind the superstitious gentiles; 

Unless our empire be establish'd here, 

O'er Salem's mount, and fated Galilee, 

Earth's empire is as dust before the wind ! 

But this high end demands far other means 

Than the poor play of mock divinity. 

Ye must abandon pride — spurn empty honour — 

Shake off the sloth of sensual hours; by these 

Man is our victim — and with thriftless zeal 

Stakes on their worth his soul's futurity, 

And finds them worthless, and is lost for ever!* — 

Watch with enduring toil — your foe sleeps not, 

But from heaven's height laughs with immortal scorn, 

To see his foes thus purblind at the brink 

Of the unfathom'd pit ! — Behold ye not 

The footstseps dread of your arch-enemy 

Stampt on the ground ye tread ? Do not your pleasures 

Proclaim the hand that forgeth pains for you ? 

When ye behold, at morn, yon granite hills 

Bask in their Lord's serene and silent sunshine, — 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 233 

When ye inhale the sweet fresh atmosphere, 

Which mantles with life's breath the rolling world, — 

Oh ! can ye dare be joyful ? Dare ye raise 

Your phantom eyes to yon sidereal host, 

Which throngs infinitude with fearful brightness, 

And hope your darkness may defy his light, 

Or fiends exult at noonday 1 — Know ye not 

His eye-beam and his spirit compass you, 

His thunders dwell around you ? Yet ye sleep ! 

Now speak ye like yourselves : But this I know 

That ye are evil. I did only wonder 

That so much wickedness becomes abortive, 

By your strange vanity. Enacting gods, 

I've known ye sink the fiend, and preach good morals, 

That men might deem you good. But this I pass, 

For it is thus sin fitliest clothes itself, 

In sounding apophthegms — while mortals, duped 

By the false semblance of a seeming good, 

Confide in fabled virtues, and abandon 

Their better trust in heaven. I now repeat not 

Your love of pleasures, which degrade all natures, 

Making the best corrupt — vice impotent : — 

But your vain malice, fiends ! the ebullition 

Of evil natures, furious to no end 

But to defeat its object, and recoil 

From the scared victim to his torturer : 

For thus repentance from your fiery rack 

Oft mounts to the eternal arbiter, 

And grace comes earthward hovering, to impart 

Peace to the penitent and weary breast. 



SECTION XCIII. 

THE SAME, CONTINUED. 

Ay — ye are weak, because ye seek oblivion, 
And drown hell's nerving hate with human follies. 
Touch'd with the frail taint of humanity, 
Ye do forget your very selves, and feebly 
Talk as if fiends had conscience. Yet for this 
Ye may not gain one moment from perdition ; 
Weak ye may be, — ye must be evil still, 
W 



234 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



Soft without mercy — without grace producing' 

The ends of heaven from your hearts' hatefulnes&, 

As genial warmth glows far, while the live furnace 

Burns inward fiercely still. For shame, ye curs'd ; 

Forget not your immitigable doom, 

Draw the fell purpose from the blighted hope — 

Be stern and unsubdued, as ye are hapless — 

As ye are fated, fatal, If ye wear 

The form of beauty, or the smile of love, 

Remember what they cover still, and are 

The sunbeam on the lake of bitterness — 

The bloom that tempteth on the poison-fruit — 

The mask of malice unsubdued — of wo 

Eternal, unreprieved : For what avails 

This low subsolar world, with all its charms, 

To ease your fate's despair ? Shall they not fleet ? 

Suns, stars, and sparkling waters, and gay shores ; 

Pomps, powers, and pleasures ; — all that glads the heart. 

Or wins the curious eye or craving sense ; 

Shall they not perish, in one moment strewn 

Upon that void wave of nonentity, 

In which your own grim prison star alone 

Travels its endless way, with its sad crew 

From deep to blacker deep, — where it shall be 

My task to inflict far heavier wo than this 

Derided exhortation '? 

How livid consternation's many hues 

Cloud your scarr'd brows with fear's deformity ! 

I love to gaze upon you thus, and muse 

In calmness upon things which angels fear. 

Yet oft, methinks, when I behold you thus 

Crouch, terror shaken, at the name of that 

Ye must substantially endure, T feel 

Strange pity touch my bosom's adamant, 

To see how lost ye are, and could nigh weep 

Over your hopeless state, as the lone granite 

Pours down the night dews o'er the desert sands, 

As if to weep o'er their sterility, 

With softness not its own. Alas ! weak fiends, 

Pleasure and soft forgetfulness are idle, 

As dreams which change not the sad waking truth. 

And coward shrinking magnifies the evil 

Which ever lessens as the heart expands, 

And the soul gathers dignity from daring. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 235 

The tyrant danger but subdues the weak — 
The fiery war-steed which the timid fears, 
Bears on the brave with answering exultation 
Into the storm of strife, with heart prepared 
To dally with the thunder of the fight. 

There is an hour mark'd in the page of doom, 
When ye shall court the thing ye shudder at. 
When death's wide portals, opening widest — last — 
Send forth their bony inmate to collect 
The gleaning of life's harvest — ye shall envy 
That common refuge from the judgment-seat, 
Where mercy's self, array'd in light too pure 
For sin to look on, bids all hope depart. 
But, 'tis enough — Ye may retire. These thoughts 
May fitlier sooth his loneliness, to whom 
Terror is as a slave. Be diligent 
Each in his proper station, and obedient 
To watch and win — be prompt at every call ; — 
Wear pleasure as a mask, and not a chain ; 
Be men your victims, not your flatterers. 
In all things view the end : That, perishing, 
Vengeance may smile upon your fall — and mingle 
Triumph with your despair. Hence ! away ! 



SECTION XCIV, 

alberto — theodore.. ...Anonymous. 

Alberto. Enter and fear not, trembler. Thou shalt 
live. 

Theodore. Ay, that I feared. 

Alb. Dost hear me, boy ? I say, 

That thou shalt live. 

Theo. I feared so. 

Alb. Wouldst thou die? 

Theo. If it pleased heaven, most willingly. I know 
That I'm a prisoner. I shall never walk 
In the sun's blessed light, or feel the touch 
Of the free air, or hear the summer brook 
All idly babbling to the moon, or taste 
The morning breath of flowers. The thousand charms 
Which make in our Sicilian isle mere life 



236 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

A thrilling pleasantness, which send a glow 
Through the poorest serf that tills the happy soil — 
I am shut out from all. This is my tomb. 
Uncle, be merciful ! I do not ask 
My throne again. Reign I reign ! I have forgot 
That I was once a king. But let me bide 
In some small woodland cottage, where green leaves 
May wave around me, and cool breezes kiss 
My brow. Keep me not in a dungeon, uncle, 
Of this dark gloomy chamber. Let me dwell 
In some wild forest. I'll not breathe a word 
That might be dangerous. No ! not to the birds 
My songsters, or the fawns my playmates, uncle. 
Thou ne'er shalt hear of me again. 

Alb. Boy! boy! 

Cling not about me thus. 

Theo. Thou wilt have mercy ; 

Thy heart is softening. 

Alb. 'Tis too late. To reign, 

And he at liberty ! I am a child 
Myself, that, won by this child's gentleness, 
I seemed to waver. Boy, thy fate is fixed ; 
Thyself hast said it. Thou'rt a prisoner, 
And for thy whole life long ; a caged bird. 
Be wiser than the feathered fool that beats 
His wings against the wire. Thou shalt have all 
Thy heart, can ask, save freedom, and that never ! 
I tell thee so in love, and not in hate ; 
For I would root out hope and fear, and plant 
Patience in thy young soul. 
Rest thee content. No harm shall happen thee. 

[Exit Alberto. 

Theo. Content! Oh mockery of grief ! content! 
Was't not enough to take away my crown, 
To mew me up here in a living tomb, 
Cut off from human ties; but my jailer 
Must bid me be content ! Would I were dead ! 
Forgive me, Heaven, for my impatience ! 
I will take better thoughts. 'Tis but to fancy 
This room a quiet hermitage, and pray 
As hermits use through the long silent hours. 
I shall be innocent. Sure, he's a friend 
That shuts me out from sin. Did he not call me 
A caged bird ? I've seen one prune himself, 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 237 

And hop from perch to perch, and chirp and sing 

Merrily ! Happy fool, it had forgot 

Blithe liberty ! But man, though he should drag 

A captive's heavy chain, even till he starts 

To hear his own sad voice, cannot forget. 

He wants that blessed gift. 



SECTION XCV. 

EXTRACT FROM MR. NORTH'S SPEECH ON THE CATHOLIC 
QUESTION. 

The honourable gentleman has made complaint of the 
surprise which has been practised on the nation, and he 
has implored time for the purpose of procuring further pe- 
titions from the country against the Catholic claims, as if 
there were something premature in the measure that was 
now proposed. Sir, I have considered this objection in 
the best way I could, and I feel bound to protest, that a 
more unfounded complaint I never heard. Why, sir, let 
us for a moment pause to reckon what has been the nature 
of the progress of the measure. I ask, boldly, was there 
ever in this house a measure that went on from stage to 
stage, and from session to session, every now and then 
making new grounds on the reason and feelings of the par- 
liament, and, I will say, on the reason and feelings of the 
country, giving every body an opportunity of watching its 
progress ? Let me also request the house to remember, 
that the whole of this progress was continually marked by 
such particular events as ought to have prevented its es- 
caping the memory of any man. In one year it happens — 
I am only just imagining that it might be so — that one gen- 
tleman who had heretofore been strenuous in his opposition 
to the measure, passes over to the other side, and declares 
his strong conviction of the necessity of something being 
done in favour of the Catholics ; in another year the divis- 
ion was changed from a majority against the Catholics to 
a majority in their favour — an event which one may well 
suppose could not have happened, without being strongly 
impressed on the minds of those who thought that the ma- 
jority had changed for the worse ; and, last of all, let the 
house recollect what was the warning conveyed to it in the 
W 2 



238 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

course of the last cession, when that great measure for the 
relief of the dissenters passed through parliament. If that 
was not a warning, sir — if honourable gentlemen did not 
then see what the signs of the times were — I can only say, 
that they appear to me to be like that stiff-necked genera- 
tion described in the Scriptures, that would not have be- 
lieved, " even though one had risen from the dead." In 
my opinion, sir, the honourable gentlemen have had abun- 
dance of time ; but, if they had had more, could they, I 
will ask, have acted with greater zeal or activity ? Have 
they not established their Brunswick clubs in Ireland ? 
Are they not as numerous as they are violent? Have they 
not approached nearer to the confines of sedition and tumult 
than any other body or collection of men ? Will they then 
now tell us, that they have had no warning of the proposal 
of this measure ? At least I think that if they wanted any 
further, they might have obtained it from a survey of their 
own condition. It seems to me, that the well known story 
of Mrs. Thrale, about the three warnings is very appli- 
cable to the opponents of the Catholic claims just now. 
The house of course knows that, in the story to which 
I have just alluded, old Dobson complains, that death has 
no business with him, because he has not received the 
three warnings that had been promised him, quite forget- 
ting that at that very moment he was without the use of 
his limbs, had lost his sight, and was as deaf as a post. 
So it is with these honourable gentlemen. Here they are 
complaining that they have had no warning : but I assure 
them, that the case of old Dobson is very much in point, 
and that they are so like old men, that they must depart 
without any further warning. 

Sir, I feel that I should not be discharging my duty as 
a member of this house — I feel that I should not be act- 
ing as a friend of Ireland, which I am most sincerely — if, 
before I conclude, I did not return my warmest thanks to 
the right honourable gentleman who has introduced this 
measure; and I take the greatest honour to myself, in 
greeting him not only as the friend of my country, but as 
my own. I do not intend to dwell upon the sacrifices 
which the right honourable gentleman has made in under- 
taking to bring forward this measure ; but there is one 
topic connected with the course which my right honoura- 
ble friend has taken, which has not been touched upon, 
and which is, therefore, still left open for me. I allude, 
sir, to the great reward which is still in store for my right 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 239 

honourable friend, and which will more than repay him for 
all the sacrifices which he has made for this greatest of 
•questions — for can a greater be imagined than that of 
Catholic emancipation ? I would speak of the period, after 
a few years shall have passed by, when my right honoura- 
ble friend shall turn his pleased but anxious eye towards 
Ireland — when he shall behold tranquillity restored to her 
— industry excited — knowledge diffused, and the moral 
tone of society elevated and improved : then will it be that 
my right honourable friend will experience feelings which 
he would not exchange for anything which the crown or 
the people have within their gift — it will be then that he 
will say that his reward is greater even than the sacrifices 
which he made to obtain it. And, sir, if I may be allowed 
to turn from my right honourable friend to the noble duke 
at the head of his majesty's government, I would say of 
him, that it appears to me that he has achieved a greater 
conquest, by the wisdom and policy which he has exercised 
in bringing forward this measure, than by anything he ever 
consummated by his valour and military skill in the field ; 
he has secured by it the affections of a great, loyal, ardent, 
and devoted people. As to the measure itself, need I say 
that I look upon it as calculated to confirm and establish 
all our great national interests ? I believe that it will give 
security to the government and to the state, and afford 
satisfaction, as the means of protecting the institutions of 
the country : it will be the means of completing the im- 
perfect measure of the union of this country with Ireland ; 
and, if I may be allowed to use the expression, it is inserting 
the key-stone into the great arch of the safety and policy of 
the empire. Nay, sir, it will do more than this — it will still 
the voice of faction— -it will extinguish the seeds of rebel- 
lion—and should foreign envy entertain any lurking hope 
of witnessing, through this medium, the downfall of British 
greatness, it will be utterly destroyed. 



SECTION XCVI. 

belshazzar Rev, H. H, Milman. 

For twice three hours our stately cars have roll'd 
Along the broad highway that crowns the walls 
Of mine imperial city, nor complete 



240 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



Our circuit by a long and ample space. 
And still our eyes look down on gilded roofs, 
And towers and temples, and the spreading tops 
Of cedar groves, through which the fountains gleam ; 
And everywhere the countless multitudes, 
Like summer insects in the noontide sun, 
Come forth to bask in our irradiate presence. 
Oh, thou vast Babylon ! what mighty hand 
Created thee, and spread thee o'er the plain, 
Capacious as a world ; and girt thee round 
With high-tower'd walls, and bound thy gates with brass ; 
And taught the indignant river to endure 
Thy bridge of cedar and of palm, high hung 
Upon its marble piers ? What voice prociaim'd, 
Amid the silence of the sands, " Arise ! 
And be earth's wonder ?" Was it not my father's ? 
Yea, mine entombed ancestors awake, 
Their heads uplift upon their marble pillows ; 
They claim the glory of thy birth. Thou hunter, 
Thai didst disdain the quarry of the field, 
Choosing thee out a nobler game of man, 
Nimrod ! and thou that with unfeminine hand 
Didst lash the coursers of thy battle car 
O'er prostrate thrones, and necks of captive kings, 
Semiramis ! and thou whose kingly breath 
Was like the desert wind ; before its coming 
The people of all earth fell down, and hid 
Their humble faces in the dust ! that madest 
The pastime of a summer day t' o'erthrow 
A city, or cast down some ancient throne ; 
Whose voice each ocean shore obey'd, and all 
From sable Ethiopia to the sands 
Of the gold-flowing Indian streams ; — oh ! thou, 
Lord of the hundred thrones, high Nabonassar ! 
And thou my father, Merodach ! ye crown'd 
This city with her diadem of towers — 
Wherefore ? — but prescient of Belshazzar's birth, 
And conscious of your destin'd son, ye toil'd 
To rear a meet abode. Oh, Babylon ! 
Thou hast him now, for whom through ages rose 
Thy sky-exalted towers — for whom von palace 
Rear'd its bright domes and groves of golden spires , 
In whom, secure of immortality, 
Thou stand'st, and consecrate from time and ruin, 
Because thou hast been the dwelling of Belshazzar ! 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 241 



SECTION XCVII. 



BELSHAZZAR DURING THE CONFLAGRATION OF BABYLON. 

I cannot fight nor fly ; where'er I move, 
On shadowy battlement, or cloud of smoke, 
That dark unbodied hand w%ves to and fro, 
And marshals me the way to death— to death 
That still eludes me. Every blazing wall 
Breaks out in those red characters of fate ; 
And when I raised my sword to war, methought 
That dark-stoled prophet stood between, and seem'd 
Rebuking Heaven for its slow consummation 
Of his dire words. 

1 am alone ; my slaves 
Fled at the first wild outcry ; and my women 
Closed all their doors against me — for they knew me 
Mark'd with the seal of destiny ; no hand, 
Though I have sued for water, holds a cup 
To my parch'd lips ; no voice, as I pass on, 
Hath bless'd me ; from the very festal garments, 
That glitter'd in my halls, they shake the dust : 
Even the priests spurn'd me, as abhorr'd of Heaven. 
Oh ! but the fiery Mede doth well avenge me ! 
They're strew'd beneath my feet — though not in worship ! 
Oh death ! death ! death ! that art so swift to seize 
The conqueror on his triumph day, the bride 
Ere yet her wedding lamps have waned, the king 
While all mankind are kneeling at his footstool — 
Thou'rt only slow to him that knows himself 
Thy fated prey, that seeks within the tomb 
A dark retreat from wretchedness and shame. 
From shame ! — the heir of Nabonassar's glory ! 
From wretchedness ! — the lord of Babylon — 
Of golden and luxurious Babylon ! 
Alas ! through burning Babylon ! the fallen, 
The city of lamentation and of slaughter ! 
A fugitive and outcast, that can find, 
Of all his realm, not even a grave ! — so base. 
That even the conquering Mede disdains to slay him ! 



242 tiJe classical speaker. 

SECTION XCVIII. 

BELSHAZZAR IMLAH ADONIJAH Ibid. 

Belshazzar. 'Tis come at last ! the barbed arrow drinks, 
My life blood. Mid the base abode of slaves 
I seem to stand : not here — my fathers set 
Like suns in glory ! I'll not perish here, 
And stifle like some vile, fotgotten lamp ! 
Oh, dreadful God ! is't not enough — My state 
I equall'd with the heavens — and wilt thou trample me 

Beneath these What are ye that crowd around me ? 

I have a dim remembrance of your forms 
And voices. Are ye not the slaves that stood 
This morn before me ? and 

Imlah. Thou spurn'dst us from thee. 

Bels. And ye'll revenge you on the clay-cold corpse. 

Iml. Fear not : our God, and this world's cruel usage, 
Hath taught us early, what kings learn too late. 

Bels. Ye know me then — ye know the king of Babylon — 
The king of dust and ashes? for what else 
Is now the beauteous city — earth's delight? 
And what the king himself, but — dust and ashes ? 
Mine eyes are heavy, and a swoon, a sleep, 
Swims o'er my head : — go, summon me the lutes 
That used to sooth me to my balmiest slumbers; 
And bid the snowy-handed maidens fan 
The dull, hot air around me. 'Tis not well — 
This bed — 'tis hard and damp. I gave command 
I would not lie but on the softest plumes 
That the birds bear. Slaves! hear ye not? — 'Tis cold — 
'Tis piercing cold ! 

Iml. Alas ! he's little used 

To feel the night winds on his naked brow : 
He's breathing still — spread o'er him that bright mantle ; 
A strange, sad use for robes of sovereignty. 
More pale, and more intent, he looks abroad 
Into the ruin, as though he felt a pride 
Even in the splendour of the desolation ! 

Bels. The hand — the unbodied hand — it moves — look 
there ! 
Look where it points ! — my beautiful palace 

Iml Look — 

The temple of great Bel — 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 243 

Bels. Our halls of joy ! 

Adonijah. Earth's pride and wonder ! 

Iml. Ay , o'er both the fire 

Mounts like a conqueror : here, o'er spacious courts, 
And avenues of pillars, and long roofs, 
From which red streams of molten gold pour down, 
It spreads, till all, like those vast fabrics, seem 
Built of the rich clouds round the setting sun — 
All the wide heavens, one bright and shadowy palace ! 
But terrible here — th' Almighty's wrathful hand 
Everywhere manifest! — There the temple stands, 
Tower above tower, one pyramid of flame ; 
To which those kingly sepulchres by Nile, 
Were but as hillocks to vast Caucasus ! 
Aloof, the wreck of Nimrod's impious tower 
Alone is dark : and something like a cloud, 
But gloomier, hovers o'er it. All is mute : 
Man's cries, and clashing steel, and braying trumpet — 
The only sound the rushing noise of fire ! 
Now, hark ! the universal crash — at once 
They fall — they sink 

Aclon. And so do those that ruled them ! 

The palace, and the temple, and the race 
Of Nabonassar, are at once extinct ! 
Babylon and her kings are fall'n for ever ! 

Iml. Without a cry, without a groan, behold them, 
Th' imperial mother and earth-ruling son, 
Stretch'd out in death ! Nor she without a gleam 
Of joy expiring with her cheek on his : 
Nor he unconscious that with him the pride 
And terror of the world is fall'n — th' abode 
And throne of universal empire — now 
A plain of ashes round the tombless dead ! 

Oh, God of hosts ! Almighty, Everlasting ! 
God of our fathers, thou alone art great ! 



SECTION XCIX. 

death of isaiah David Lindsay. 

Then, 
" Wilt thou not speak to me ?" Manasseh said ; 
" I sent for thee, that thou might'st witness how 



244 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

I mock the jealousy of him thou serv'st — 
Lo ! here Baalim — in thy temple's domes 
Upon the very ark, where he may be 
O'ershadow'd by the cherubim, I will, 
My people, place this image — if thy God, 
Indeed, has chosen Solomon's high seat 
For his especial throne, let him come down 
And banish hence th' intruder." 

Then the form 
Of stern Isaiah with the mighty spirit 
Of an avenging god grew terrible — 
The drops of agony stood on his brow — 
The spark, that lay still sleeping in his eye, 
Burn'd up like Sinai's lightnings, his broad breast 
Heaved, and his garments rustled loud, and waved 
As though a mighty wind was round him, though 
There was not air enough within that dome 
To beat the cloud of incense down, which roll'd 
Its perfumed curls before the sinful king — 
Forth did he stretch his mantled arm, and strove 
To speak, but yet he could not. 

Then the fiend, 
Which was Manasseh's angel whisper'd him, 
And said, " Strike — strike the accursed — he will turn 
Thy people from their purpose ; thou wilt be 
The scorn'd before all Judah, — strike him dead, 
Or haste to raise the image." 

Then the eye 
Of the God fraught, turn'd on the speaker's face, 
Who stood beside the king ; he did not die, 
But vanish'd suddenly — there was a groan ! 
A shriek ! — then there was nothing ! — vacancy 
Where he had been — they look'd upon the spot 
And shudder'd — then they turn'd them to the brow, 
Th' annihilating eye — their souls grew sick — 
They look'd toward the king. 

But then Isaiah spoke ! — " The sound I hear 
Is of the vulture and the wolf — howl ! howl ! 
Your banquet is preparing ; even now 
The slaughterers are rising — ' Kill and slay !' 
Then feed ye unto loathing — hear, thou King ! 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 245 

Thou sitter on the everlasting throne, 
Thou wearer of the bright, eternal crown, 
One sinks beneath thee, and into the dust 
Tumbles the diadem !" 

" Hear, ye rebellious — hear and tremble — lo ! 
Thus saith the * Wonderful,' whose unknown name 
Is written by the stars upon the heaven. 
I speak no more in mystery, but declare 
Aloud the horrors of your fate. She comes, 
Purple Assyria, with her hand of steel, 
And heart of fire, and eye of blood, and soul 
Harden'd from tears and pity ; round the steps 
Of her white courser float the shrieking shades 
From Hinnom's fire-lit valley. Judah's sons 
Watching the day of vengeance — Judah's sons, 
Manasseh's children — o'er whose fire-scorch'd heads 
David looks down, from his abodes of bliss, 
And shuddering weeps." 

Then said the furious king, 
" Now, from my inmost soul, I hate thy face, 
Thou son of Amos. Nought of good, or bliss, 
Wishest thou unto me, or David's house, 
Which thy foul lip hath cursed. Thou shalt die ; 
Thou shalt not see the evil which thou deem'st 
Shall fall upon our land. A lying spirit 
Hath entered in thee, and declareth ill 
Where all is bliss around thee. Are we not 
Blessed above all nations? If the Chaldean 
Cometh as thou hast said, may he not fear 
The doom, such as within my father's days 
O'ertook his mighty host?" 

The seer replied, 
" Thy father's heart was at Jehovah's foot, 
But thou hast turn'd from him who fought that fight, 
And now he aids thee not." 

"Baalim then," 
Said the proud king, " will bless our mighty arms, 
Or by supernal power destroy our foe, 
And strike his favour'd chiefs — thy words are false ; 
Thyself a lie — they will not, dare not come ; 
X 



246 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER, 



Pay they not tribute ? Judah's sacred soil, 
Shall never be polluted by the tread 
Of hostile warriors." 

" Did Nisroch save the king/' Isaiah said, 
" Or Baal, that thus ye bow the knee before 
His filthy godhead, in his temple's courts 
He died in worshipping — beware — beware ! 
Cease your blasphemous songs : they are to me 
Convulsive laughters of a dying man — 
Wo to the crown of pride — to Ariel wo ! 
Round thee the fierce Assyrian draws his lines, 
Thunders upon Judea, death and chains — 
Cry out, oh land ! fear, and the pit, and snares 
Are fall'n upon thee — Majesty is dead ! 
Chains for the king Manasseh." 

Then the king 
Leap'd from his seat, and with his terrible sword, 
Smote to the heart Isaiah. He fell down 
Prostrate before the king, and cried aloud, — 
" Cover, oh earth, my blood, nor let it rise 
In judgment 'gainst my people — cover it 
Until the day of consummation fill 
The red cup to the brim — and hark ! the cry 
Of the press'd billows as they groan beneath 
The winged ships of Chaldea — on thy shores 
Lodge they their steeled burthen — chains and death — 
Chains for the king Manasseh !" 

Then he bow'd 
His head and died. And then around him bent 
The weeping priests, regardless of the wrath 
Of stern Manasseh — and the inspired theme 
Rose with Isaiah's spirit from the dust, 
And sat upon them, as with solemn song 
They graced his corse, and mock'd the tyrant's rage. 



SECTION C. 

titus before Jerusalem Rev. II. H. Milrnan. 

It must be — 
And yet it moves me, Romans ! it confounds 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



247 



The counsels of my firm philosophy, 

That ruin's merciless ploughshare must pass o'er, 

And barren salt be sown on yon proud city. 

As on our olive-crowned hill we stand, 

Where Kedron at our feet, its scanty waters, 

Distils from stone to stone with gentle motion, 

As through a valley sacred to sweet peace, 

How boldly doth it front us ! how majestically ! 

Like a luxurious vineyard, the hill side 

Is hung with marble fabrics, line o'er line, 

Terrace o'er terrace, nearer still, and nearer 

To the blue heavens. Here bright and sumptuous palaces, 

With cool and verdant gardens interspersed ; 

Here towers of war that frown in massy strength. 

While over all hangs the rich purple eve, 

As conscious of its being her last farewell 

Of light and glory to that fated city, 

And, as our clouds of battle dust and smoke 

Are melted into air, behold the temple, 

In undisturb'd and lone serenity 

Finding itself a solemn sanctuary 

In the profound of heaven ! It stands before us, 

A mount of snow fretted with golden pinnacles ! 

The very sun, as though he worshipp'd there, 

Lingers upon the gilded cedar roofs ; 

And down the long and branching porticoes, 

On every flowery sculptur'd capital, 

Glitters the homage of his parting beams. 

By Hercules ! the sight might almost win 

The offended majesty of Rome to mercy. 

But thus it is — I know not whence or how, 
There is a stern command upon my soul. 
I feel the inexorable fate within 
That tells me carnage is a duty here, 
And that the appointed desolation chides 
The tardy vengeance of our war. Destiny 
Is over all, and hard necessity 
Holds o'er the shifting course of human things 
Her paramount dominion. Like a flood 
The irresistible stream of fate flows on, 
And urges in its vast and sweeping motion 
Kings, consuls, Cassars, with their mightiest armies, 
Each to his fix'd inevitable end. 
Yea, even eternal Rome, and father Jove, 
Sternly submissive, sail that onward tide. 



248 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



And now am I upon its rushing bosom, 
I feel its silent billows swell beneath me, 
Bearing me and the conquering arms of Rome 
'Gainst yon devoted city. 



SECTION CI. 

EXTRACT FROM THE SPEECH OF MR. PEEL, ON THE 
CATHOLIC QUESTION, 1828. 

I detailed, sir, on a former occasion, that a dreadful 
commotion had distracted the public mind in Ireland— that 
a feverish agitation and unnatural excitement prevailed 
to a degree scarcely credible, throughout the entire country. 
I attempted to show that social intercourse was poisoned 
there in its very springs — that family was divided against 
family, and man against his neighbour — that, in a word, 
the bonds of social life were almost dissevered — that the 
fountains of public justice were corrupted — that the spirit 
of discord walked openly abroad — and that an array of 
physical force was marshalled in defiance of all law, and 
to the imminent danger of the public peace. I ask, sir, 
could this state of things be suffered to exist, and what 
course were we to pursue ? Perhaps I shall be told, as I 
was on a former occasion, in forcible, though familiar lan- 
guage, that " this is the old story ! that all this has been 
so for the last twenty years, and that therefore there is no 
reason for a change." Why, sir, this is the very reason 
for the change. It is because the evil is not casual and 
temporary, but permanent and inveterate — it is because the 
detail of misery and of outrage is nothing but " the old sto- 
ry," that I am contented to run the hazard of a change. We 
cannot determine upon remaining idle spectators of the dis- 
cord and disturbance of Ireland. The universal voice of 
the country declares that something must be done ; I am 
but echoing the sentiments of all reasonable men, when I 
repeat that something must be done. I wish, however, to 
take nothing for granted, but to found my argument, not 
upon general assent, but upon unquestionable facts. 

There are, sir, practical and certain, and I fear incura- 
ble evils, which we must determine to endure, if we resolve 
to retrace our steps. But are there no contingent misfor- 
tunes, upon the occurrence of which, and upon the issue 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 249 

of which, if they should occur, a prudent government must 
calculate? What will be the result of civil insurrection? 
What will be that of foreign war ? Will this system of 
continued exclusion, or I should rather say, of deprivation 
and coercion, be proof against such calamities? If it be 
not, is it wise to adopt it? We have had, in the recent 
history of Ireland, experience of the effect of both these 
calamities — experience of the practical bearing of each of 
them on the Catholic question. 

We have had the sad experience of that great calamity — 
civil discord and bloodshed. Surely it is no unmanly fear 
that shudders at its recurrence — no degenerate impulse 
that prompts one to exclaim, with lord Falkland, " Peace ! 
peace ! peace I" — that looks out with anxiety for the alter- 
natives by which civil war may be honourably averted ; 
which may rescue the natives of the same land, and the 
fellow-subjects of the same king, from the dire necessity 
of embruing their hands in each other's blood : 

Coeant in feeders dextras 
Si datur — ast arrais concurrant arma cavete. 

Let us again appeal to history, as to the issue of civil war. 
Let us refer to the records of 1793, and well consider what 
has been the bearing of a defeated rebellion on the claims 
of the Roman Catholics, The character of that rebellion 
is written in the statute-book. The preamble of the law, 
which contributed to its suppression, declared it to be a 
wicked rebellion — that desolates and lays waste the coun- 
try by the most savage and wanton violence, excess, and 
outrage — that has utterly set at defiance the civil power — 
and has stopped the ordinary course of justice and of the 
common law." This rebellion, thus characterized, was 
utterly defeated, and suppressed by force. There was the 
utmost indignation at the atrocities committed — there was 
every stimulation to retaliation and revenge — complete tri- 
umph on the part of the government, — but was there an end 
of the Catholic question ? No, sir, so far from it, the ministers, 
by whose fortitude the rebellion was suppressed, carried the 
measure of union, as a preliminary to the settlement of the 
Catholic question, and resigned their offices almost before 
the dying embers of the rebellion weie cold, because they 
could not also carry this very question of relief to the Ro- 
man Catholics. Will the issue, the successful issue of civil 
war, leave us in a better condition now than it left us in 
X 2 



250 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

the year 1800 1 or shall we not, at its close, have to dis- 
cuss this same question of concession— with imbittered an- 
imosities — with a more imperious necessity for the adjust- 
ment of this question — and with a diminished chance of 
effecting that adjustment on safe and satisfactory principles. 



SECTION CII. 

EXTRACT FROM THE SAME. 

Sir, objections, solid objections, if considered abstract* 
edly, may be brought forward against the details of every 
measure of an extensive and complicated nature, like the 
present. Depend upon it, we never shall settle the Catho- 
lic question, if every man is determined to settle it in his 
own way and according to his own peculiar views and 
wishes. We never shall settle it, unless we are prepared to 
make mutual concessions and sacrifices. I admit the pos- 
sibility of danger from the grant of relief, but I ask the 
Protestants, whether there is not a prospect, that, by unit- 
ing the Protestant mind on this subject, we shall be able 
to rind new and sufficient securities, against any difficulties 
that may possibly arise out of the settlement of this ques- 
tion. I ask the Roman Catholics to contemplate the ex- 
tent of privilege that is conferred, and the sacrifices which 
we make, by consenting to repeal the laws which have 
given an exclusive character to the legislature and govern- 
ment of this country. Let them meet us in the same spir- 
it, and manifest an anxious wish to allay every reasonable 
apprehension. God grant that the sanguine expectations 
of those who for so many years have advised this settlement 
may be fulfilled ! God grant that the removal of the disa- 
bilities that have so long affected our Roman Catholic fel- 
low subjects, may be attended with the desired effect; and 
assuage the civil contentions of Ireland ! — that, by the ad- 
mission of the Roman Catholics to a full and equal parti- 
cipation in civil rights, and by the establishment of a free 
and cordial intercourse between all classes of his majesty's 
subjects, mutual jealousies may be removed ; and that we 
may be taught, instead of looking at each other, as adver- 
saries and opponents, to respect and value each other, and 
to discover the existence of qualities, on both sides, that 
were not attributed to either. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 251 

I have seen, day by day, disunion and hatred increasing 
and the prospects of peace obscured by the gloomy advance 
of discontent, and suspicion and distrust creeping on " step 
by step, like the mist at the heels of the countryman." I 
well know that I might have taken a more popular and a 
more selfish course. I might have held language much 
more acceptable to the friends with whom I have long acted, 
and to the constituents whom I have lately lost. " His ego 
gratiora dictu alia esse scio ; sed me vera pro gratis loqui, 
et si meum ingenium non moneret, necessitas cogit. Vel- 
lern equidem vobis placere : sed multo malo vos salvos esse ; 
qualicunque erga me animo futuri estis." In the course 
I have taken, I have been mainly influenced by the anxious 
desire to provide for the maintenance of Protestant inter- 
ests ; and for the security of Protestant establishments. 
This is my defence — this is my consolation — this shall be 
my revenge. 

Sir, I will hope for the best. God grant that the moral 
storm may be appeased — that the turbid waters of strife 
may be settled and composed — and that, having found their 
just level, they may be mingled, with equal flow, in one 
clear and common stream. But, if these expectations are 
to be disappointed — if, unhappily, civil strife and contention 
shall survive the restoration of political privilege; — if there 
be something inherent in the spirit of the Roman Catholic 
religion which disdains equality, and will be satisfied with 
nothing but ascendancy — still, I am content to run the 
hazard of the change. The contest, if inevitable, will be 
fought for other objects, and with other arms. The strug- 
gle will be — not for the abolition of civil distinctions — but 
for the predominance of an intolerant religion. 

Sir, I contemplate the progress of that struggle with 
pain ; but 1 look forward to its issue with perfect compos- 
ure and confidence. We shall have dissolved the great moral 
alliance that has hitherto given strength to the cause of the 
Roman Catholics. We shall range on our side the illus- 
trious authorities which have heretofore been enlisted upon 
theirs ; — the rallying cry of " civil liberty" will then be all 
our own. We shall enter the field with the full assurance 
of victory — armed with the consciousness of having done 
justice, and of being in the right — backed by the unani- 
mous feeling of England — by the firm union of orthodoxy 
and dissent — by the applauding voice of Scotland ; and, if 
other aid be requisite, cheered by the sympathies of every 



252 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

free state in either hemisphere, and by the wishes and the 
prayers of every free man in every clime, or under what- 
ever form of government his lot may have been cast. 



SECTION CUT. 
shenstone — mr. ludgate Blackwood' s Magazine. 

Shenstone. Come in here, sir ; we account this shady 
walk, affording, as you see, glimpses of that piece of water, 
a pleasing situation. 

Ludgate. It must be charming indeed in dead summer 
— 'tisn't quite so warm as one could wish it just now. 

Shen. True — but the views are as fine as in hotter 
weather. Here, this way, is a rustic edifice to give the 
scene an object. It has an inscription, pertinent enough, 
I hope — Would you like to read it 1 You can see it while 
you sit on this bench. 

Lud. Why, if I can find my eyes — I hope I have 'em in 
my waistcoat pocket — Ah, yes, I thought so. (Reads.) 

" Here, in cool grot and mossy cell, 
We rural fays and fairies dwell." 

Pray, good sir, what are fays ? I have heard folks say, " by 
my fay;" but I always thought 'twas short for faith. 

Shen. We won't etymologize, if you please, Mr. Daniel. 

Lud. (Reads.) 

" Though rarely seen by mortal eye, 
When the pale moon, ascending high, 
Darts through your limbs " 

Shen. Limes, sir, " yon limes" — the trees opposite. 
Lud. (Reads.) 

" Darts through yon limes her quivering beams.'-' 

There's a deal of it — my glasses want wiping. 

Shen. Pray, sir, don't trouble yourself. My lines do 
not by any means " come mended from your iongue." We 
will proceed — there is a seat a little farther on, Now, then, 
how do you like that cascade ? 

Lud. Bless my heart ! that pond has burst out sadly — 
how it does run over ! Though perhaps you want to get 
rid of some of the water. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 253 

Shen. It is a stream, and not meant to be confined. 
(Aside.) Oh for a modicum of patience ! and yet there is 
something laughable, too, in all this. 

Lud. A stream, sir ? but it seems to be penned up — If 
those great big lumps of stone were taken away, it would 
run off easier. 

Shen. It would ; but the varied appearance and dashing 
sounds are much admired. 

Lud. Well, if so — and no doubt you know best. Per- 
haps, also, it keeps the fish from going away. Have you 
many in that large pond, Mr. Shenstone ? 

Shen. T don't know, sir. 

Lud. Dear me ! it is odd you have never tried to find 
out. 

Shen. I value the water for the picturesque features it 
adds to the valley ; as for the rest, I am neither sportsman 
nor epicure. 

Lud. I don't dispute your word, kind sir, about that 
sort of value — not that I quite comprehend what picturesque 
is — but I make not the least manner of doubt, that you 
would catch fish in that water there, if you would but try 
your hand. Only try, sir, do. 

Shen. Why, the fact is, my men have sometimes caught 
a few red herrings, and a stock-fish or two ; but I do not 
encourage the fishery, for those sorts do not agree with my 
stomach. 

Lud. Dear now — why, bless me ! — Oh ho, Mr. Shen- 
stone, I smell a rat : you love a joke. No, no, we don't 
get our Lent salt-fish from the Leasowes. But I am quite 
rested now ; may we go on ? 

Shen. (aside.) Come, the booby is good-humoured ; but 
would it were over. (Aloud.) Stop, sir, stop ; don't go 
through that gate — it is meant to come in at, not to go out 
by. 

Lud. Oh, I find no difficulty in getting through it. 

Shen. How perverse it is, that you will not understand 
me — 1 mean, sir, that it will lead you to take the wrong point 
of view. That walk is so laid out, as to be entered at the 
other end. The prospects suit best in that direction. Here, 
sir, here — how do you fancy this lawn ? 

Lud. It is a nice place indeed ; if it was levelled, 'twould 
make a good bowling-green. It is a good deal like a place 
I used to go to, only the statue there was a shepherdess, 
and this is I don't know exactly what — 'twas a tea garden 
at Hoxton, where 



254 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Shen. Pray, sir, don't mention such odious puppet- 
shows. This urn is inscribed to the memory of the late 
Mr. Somerville, the poet of The Chase. You may have 
heard Dodsley mention him. 

JLud. I have, sir. Now, though that urn is of a good 
size, I have sold jars of real china nearly as big — I have 
indeed. Oh, then, that statue is the gentleman's monu- 
ment! — Dear, what a very odd-looking man he must have 
been — he has amazingly large ears, and great bumps, al- 
most like horns, on his forehead ! 

Shen. I wish, Mr. Ludgate, you would keep to your 
crockery-ware comparisons ; yet it is too ridiculous to be 
angry at. Heaven help your bow-bell wits ! that is a cast 
of the piping fawn, and not an image of Mr. Somerville, 
But come, come, we will leave this seat. Our next post is 
beyond those willows. This rough building is, you see, 
dedicated to my noble friend the Earl of Stamford. 

Lud. And pray, sir, may I be so bold as to ask what 
my lord does with it? Does he keep anything there? 

Shen. Do with it ? Pshaw, sir, he was present at the 
opening of that waterfall ; and the building is named after 
him, to commemorate that occasion, and his friendship for 
me. After we have passed through that piece of forest 
ground, there is something that will, I presume, gratify you. 
Now, sir, here it is — read what is on that stone. 

Lud. (Meads.) 

To Mr. Dodsley. 
el Come then, my friend, thy sylvan taste display ; 
Come, hear thy Faunus tune his rustic lay ; 
Ah ! rather come, and in these dells disown 
The care of other strains, and tune thine own." 

What ! and so you have erected a tombstone to our friend 
Robert ? But Doddy isn't dead yet. Is it not rather un- 
usual, sir, to do it beforehand ? 

Shen. A tombstone ! no such thing — a mere appropria- 
tion of the spot to the memory of a worthy man — a record of 
my respect for him — a compliment to a brother poet. How- 
ever, sir, we must get forward — not so fast either — this 
bench will hold us both, while we look towards the priory. 

Lud. Why, your seats are so many — and, to say the 
truth, I a'n't at all tired, and don't in the least want to sit 
so soon again ; and, besides, I had a little touch of gout 
last autumn. But, as you please, good sir, I'm conforma- 
ble. Those pales round the priory are rather roughish. 
What d'ye think, sir, of a neat Chinese railing ? My wife 
has ordered ever so many yards of it for our fence, 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 255 

Shen. Mrs. Ludgate may copy the designs on your quon- 
dam cups and saucers, and welcome ; but I am not at all 
smitten with the teapot taste now in vogue. I derive my 
hints from paintings of another sort. 

Lud. Every one to his liking — no affront, I hope. But 
what is here ? a bowl, I protest. " To all our friends round 
the Wrekin." 

Shen. That famous hill is seen from this station. It is 
the distant one which lies in that direction. 

Lud. Is it indeed ? I have heard talk of it. Now, 1 
dare say, you have a syllabub out of this bowl sometimes. 

Shen. No, sir, my beechen bowl has never been hon- 
oured (I should prefer saying, profaned) by such a rus-in- 
urbe beverage. 

Lud. Then, sir, what do you drink out of it ? 

Shen. Pshaw, sir, there it stands, and looks in charac- 
ter ; and the inscription is apt, and that is enough. Excuse 
me, for I am tired of whys and whats and wherefores. And 
you, sir, I am sure you are tired also. Now, I can assure 
you, that it is not worth while for you to go over the rest of 
the place ; for there is nothing in the whole walk but wood 
and water, and shrubs and grass, and rocks and banks, and 
all that sort of things, with a few busts and inscriptions 
which you won't care a farthing for. I am strangely defi- 
cient in love for terraces, and yew peacocks, and smoking 
arbours, and nine-pin alleys. 1 am afraid this sight-seeing 
has been as dull to you as it would have been to me to 
witness your unpacking some crates of delft ware. My 
compliments to Dodsley. I wish you a good morning. O 
what a blessed riddance ! 



SECTION CIV. 

EXTRACT FROM "THE REIGNING VICE, A SATIRE." 

Anonymous. 

Fraught with desires unbounded as our lot, 
Self-adoration can content us not. 
Where'er we turn, the world, with all its arms, 
Must hold its huge reflector to our charms. 
Here, too, illusion cheats the willing mind, 
By gazing on itself grown worse than blind : 
Our thoughts are traitors, and we labour thus 
To make ourselves at last — ridiculous. 



256 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

As vast our aim at perfect self-content, 

We most would shine in what is least our bent. 

Here lies our foible, this our tenderest side, 

For vanity is sooner touch'd than pride : 

Acknowledged claims from further strife may cease, 

But dubious titles are the curse of peace. 

Blockheads turn critics, ploughmen read the news, 

The deaf love music, and the blind fine views; 

The cobler soars on Pegasean wings, 

The lame man dances, the duenna sings ; 

The stammering tongue in senates loves to speak, 

And the soft ogle strains the eye oblique. 

Merit herself will foreign aims pursue, 

Unheeding praise which justly is her due. 

In vain a thousand charms adorns the breast ; 

The one that's wanting poisons all the rest. 

Wits will be heroes, heroes will be beaux, 

Tully turns Homer, Horace vaunts his prose. 

Stupendous Johnson, with discordant scream, 

Puffs at the pipe — a second Polypheme. 

Paul preaches well, but music is his art ; 

Paul in the pulpit, but at home Mozart. 

Pyrrho for penetration claims renown, 
And reads all characters — except his own. 
Once in the senate he essay'd his skill, 
And all the politician haunts him still. 
With what keen intellect, what vigorous thought, 
He sees and guesses every thing — that's not ! 
How well he knows — a gosling from a hen, 
And bafflles all the plots — of honest men! 
Great powers in logic he reveals, in sooth, 
And reasons well — without a grain of truth ! 
Still on his guard, the villain's veriest tool ; 
Despising folly, duped by every fool ; 
Sad without sorrow, poor without expense, 
From very wisdom lost to common sense. 

Preserve me, heaven, from those deliberate fools, 
Who measure all things with their lines and rules ; 
Whose solemn air and self-important mien, 
Like empty houses, cry, il Inquire within !" 
You knock ; some oracle rewards your pains — 
" 'Tis heavy travelling after pouring rains !" 
O, novel fact ! indisputably true ! 
Yet not so heavy as to talk with you ! 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 25? 

With all his little might Verbosus tries 

To look emphatic, dignified, and wise, 

As if his gravity with nature strove, 

The face of Momus with the air of Jove ; 

That face a cushion on which sorrow ne'er 

Sate long enough to leave one wrinkle there. 

His nose so comic mocks his mouth so prim, 

And, though he will not laugh, we laugh at him. 

Say, who shall bound his intellectual power, 

Who makes some vast discovery every hour ? 

He bustles up, his wisdom's egg to lay, 

As if afraid to drop it by the way. 

Ye Humes, ye Gibbons, hide abash'd your eyes, 

Verbosus says — " Queen Bess was mighty wise !" 

Look at Aurelia ! you at once declare 

That nature meant her for a grenadier. 

Strength is her dow'ry, health her luckless fate, 

But 'tis her passion to be delicate. 

Pearl-powder dims her cheek's unvaried hue, 

Yet still the stubborn peony shines through. 

Her voice, that might an army's march command, 

Is softly practised into whispers bland. 

From that huge mouth it seems the bird of Nile, 

That warbles from the jaws of crocodile. 

On her two daughters leans the sturdy dame, 

An arm of each upholds her giant frame ; 

Then to a couch by slow degrees she halts, 

And sinking, gasps, " Thanks, darlings ! Now my salts ! ,? 



SECTION CV. 

CALILEO A MONK, IN THE INQUISITION,. ...Blackwood' S 

Magazine. 

Galileo. So you are come to close the shutters of my 
window before nightfall. Surely these bars are strong 
enough. I would fain have the consolation of viewing the 
heavens after it is dark. My sleep is unquiet and short, for 
want of exercise : and when I lie awake, the roof of my 
prison presents nothing but a sable blank. Do not, I be- 
seech you, conceal from me the blue vault, and those hosts 
of light, upon which I still love to gaze in spite of all my 
troubles. 

Y 



25S THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Monk. You must not see the stars. It is the stars 
which have put you wrong. Poor man ! to think the earth 
was turning round. 

Gali. Alas ! alas ! Is it for this that I have studied ? 

Monk. Do you suppose, that if the earth had been turn- 
ing all this while, the sea would not have drowned every 
living soul? I put this to you, as a simple question, and 
level with the most ordinary capacity. 

Gali. My good friend, you know that I have recanted 
these things, and therefore it is needless for me to dispute 
farther upon the subject. 

Monk. Your books were burnt at Rome, which, in my 
opinion, was an idle business. In a few years they would 
have turned to smoke of their own accord. 'Tis the way 
with all new discoveries, for I am an old christian, and have 
seen the fashion of the world before now. 

Gali. Do you suppose that glass windows were used in 
the time of Adam ? 

Monk. No ; for the scripture mentions no such thing. 
But what then ? 

Gali. Why then, you must admit that time teaches 
things which were unknown before. 

Monk. That is possible enough. But now things are 
different ; for my head is gray, and 1 have no faith in new 
discoveries. 

Gali. We know not what time may bring about. Per- 
haps the earth may yet be weighed. 

Monk. Go on — you shall receive no interruption from 
me. You perceive that I only smile gently and good-na- 
turedly when you talk in this manner. 

Gali. What is the matter ? what makes you look so 



wise 



? 



Monk. Never mind. Go on. 

Gali. What is the meaning of this extraordinary look 
of tenderness and benignity, which you are attempting to 
throw into your features, 

Monk. When I consider what is your real condition, it 
moves my pity. For my part, when the cardinals made so 
much ado about your writings, I always thought they were 
trifling with their office. 

Gali. 1 wish you would convince them of that ; for all 
I desire is, to have the privilege of looking through my tel- 
escopes, and to live quietly without doing harm to any man. 
I pray you, allow the window to remain open ; for darkness 
is gathering, and Jupiter already blazes yonder through 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



259 



the twilight. So pure a sky ! — andto be debarred from my 
optical contrivances. 

Monk. Study the scriptures, and you will have no need 
of optical contrivances. 

Gait. I am well acquainted with the scriptures ; but as 
I do not suppose they were meant to instruct mankind in 
astronomy, I think there is no sacrilege in attempting to 
discover more of the nature of the universe than what is 
revealed in them. 

Monk. So you believe yourself capable of succeeding 
in the attempt ? 

Gali. Perhaps I do. 

Monk. Do not allow yourself to be led away by the idle 
suggestions of self-conceit. What is there to be seen about 
you, which should enable you to penetrate farther into the 
secrets of the universe than me or the rest of mankind 1 
I do not ask this question with a view to wound your pride, 
but with a sincere wish for your good. 

Gali. Upon my word, you are too kind to me. Pray, 
where do you suppose the habitations of good men to be? 

Monk. Why, in heaven, to be sure. 

Gali. Is it not possible that their abode may be situated 
in some of the constellations ? When gazing, as I was 
wont to do, at midnight, upon Arcturus, or the brilliant orbs 
of Orion, 1 have sometimes thought, that in the blue depths 
there might exist worlds suitable for the habitation of an 
immortal spirit. 

Monk. Beware of futile conjectures ! You know not 
upon what ground you are treading. 

Gali. Does not the galaxy shed forth a glorious light ? 
How gorgeous is its throng of constellations ! — To me it 
seems like a procession of innumerable worlds, passing in 
review before our Creator. 

Monk. If the galaxy moves, why may not the sun ? 

Gali. My judgment is, that they may both move, for 
aught I know, although at a very slow pace. 

Monk. Now you speak sense. I knew I should bring 
you round ; for to say the truth, (and I say it between you 
and me,) if it had not been for my enemies, whom Heaven 
pardon, I should have been wearing a red hat before now. 
Good night : and I shall immediately bring a book, which 
will help to put your thoughts in a proper train again, 



260 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



SECTION CVL 

HENRY IV.— SIR ARNOLD SAVAGE.,... W. S. Lmdor. 

lavage. I obey the commands of my liege. 

Henri/. 'Tis well : thou appearest more civil and cour- 
teous, Sir Arnold Savage, than this morning in another 
place, when thou declaredst unto me, as speaker of the 
Commons, that no subsidy should be granted me until every 
cause of public grievance was removed. 

Sav. I am now in the house of the greatest man upon 
earth : I was then in the house of the greatest nation. 

Hen. Marry \ thou speakest rightly upon both points | 
but the latter, I declare unto thee, pleaseth me most. And 
now, Savage, I do tell thee with like frankness, I had well- 
nigh sent a score of halberts among your worshipful knights 
and sleek wool-staplers, for I was sore chafed, and if an- 
other had dealt with me in such wise, [ should have straight- 
way followed mine inclination. Thou knowest that I am 
greatly let and hindered in my projected wars, by such 
obstinacy and undutifulness in my people. 1 raised up the 
House of Commons four years ago, and placed it in opposition 
to my barons, with trust and confidence that, by the bless- 
ing of Christ and his saints, 1 might be less hampered in 
my complete conquest of France. This is monstrous : 
Parliament speaks too plainly and steps too stoutly for a 
creature of four years 7 growth. 

Sav. God forbid that any king of England should 
achieve the conquest of all France. Patience, my liege 
and lord ! Our Norman ancestors, the most warlike peo- 
ple upon whose manners the morning sun ever lighted, have 
wrested the sceptre from her swaddling kings, and pushing 
them back on their cushions and cupboards, have been 
contented with the seizure of their best and largest prov- 
ince. The possession of more serfs would have tempted 
them to sit down in idleness, and no piece of unbroken 
turf would have been left for the playground of their chil- 
dren in arms. William the Conqueror, the most puissant 
of knights and the wisest of statesmen, thought fit to open 
a new career, lest the pride of his chivalry should be 
troublesome to him at home. He led them forth against the 
brave and good Harold, whose armies had bled profusely, 
in their wars against the Scot. Pity that such blood as 
the Saxon should ever have been spilt ! but hence are the 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 261 

titledeeds to our lands and tenements, the perpetuity of 
our power and dominion. 

Hen. To preserve them from jeopardy, I must have 
silver in store ; I must have horses and armour, and where- 
with to satisfy the cravings of the soldier, always sharp, 
and sharpest of all after fighting. 

Sav. My liege must also have other things, which es- 
caped his recollection. 

Hen. Stores of hides, and of the creatures that were 
within them. Divers other commodities must be procured 
from the ruler of the Adriatic, from him who never was in- 
fant nor stripling, whom God took by the right hand, and 
taught to walk by himself the first hour. Moreover, I must 
have instruments of mine own device, weighty, and exceed- 
ing costly ; such as machinery for beating down walls. 
Nothing of these hath escaped my knowledge or memory, 
but the recital of some befits a butler, or sutler, or armorer, 
better than a king. 

Sav. And yet methinks, sir, there are others, which 
you might have mentioned and have not, the recital of 
which would befit a king, rather than sutler, butler, or ar- 
mourer : they are indeed the very best and most necessary 
things in the world, to batter down your enemy's walls 
with. 

Hen. What may they be ? you must find them. 

Sav. You have found them, and must keep them 

they are the hearts of your subjects. Your horse will not 
gallop far without them, though you empty into his manger 
all the garners of Surrey. Wars are requisite, to diminish 
the power of your Barons, by keeping them long and wide- 
ly separate from the main body of retainers, and under the 
ken of a stern and steady prince, watching their movements, 
curbing their discourses, and inuring them to regular and 
sharp discipline. In general they are the worthless, exalt- 
ed by the weak, and dangerous from wealth ill acquired, 
and worse expended. The whole people is a good king's 
household, quiet and orderly when well treated, and ever 
in readiness to defend him against the malice of the dis- 
appointed, the perfidy of the ungrateful, and the usurpation 
of the familiar. Act in such guise, most glorious Henry, 
that the king may say my people, and the people say our 
king ; I then will promise you more, passing any computa- 
tion, than I refused you this morning ; the enjoyment of a 
blessing, to which the conquest of France in comparison is 
Y 2 



^ 



262 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

as a broken flagstaff... self-approbation in government, and 
security in power. 

Hen. Faith ! I could find it in my heart, sir Arnold, to 
clip thine eagle's claws, and perch thee somewhere in the 
peerage. 

Sav. Measureless is the distance between my liege and 
me : but I occupy the second rank among men now living, 
forasmuch as, under the guidance of Almighty God, the 
most discreet and courageous have appointed me, unworthy 
as I am, to be the great comprehensive symbol of the Eng- 
lish people. 



SECTION CVII. 

SALADIN MALEK ADHEL ATTENDANT London New 

Monthly Magazine. 

Attendant. A stranger craves admittance to your High- 
ness. 

Saladin. Whence comes he? 

Atten. That 1 know not — 

Enveloped in a vestment of strange form, 
His countenance is hidden, but his step, 
His lofty port, his voice in vain disguis'd, 
Proclaim — if that 1 dar'd pronounce it. 

Sal. Whom ? 

Atten. Thy royal bi other. 

Sal. Bring him instantly. 

[Exit Attendant. 
Now with his specious, smooth, persuasive tongue, 
Fraught with some wily subterfuge, he thinks 
To dissipate my anger — he shall die. 

Enter Attendant, and Malek Adliel. 

Sal. Leave us together. (Exit Atten.) (aside.) I 
should know that form. 
Now summon all thy fortitude, my soul, 
Nor, though thy blood cry for him, spare the guilty. 
(Aloud.) Well, stranger, speak ; but first unveil thyself, 
For Saladin must view the form that fronts him. 

Malek Adhel Behold it, then ! 

Sal. I see a traitor's visage. 

Mai Ad. A brother's. 

Sal No— 

Saladin owns no kindred with a villain. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 263 

Mai. Ad. Oh, patience, Heav en ! Had any tongue but 
thine 
Utter'd that word, it ne'er should speak another. 

Sal. And why not now ? Can this heart be more pierced 
By Malek Adhel's sword than by his deeds ? 
Oh, thou hast made a desert of this bosom ! 
For open candour, planted sly disguise; 
For confidence, suspicion ; and the glow 
Of generous friendship, tenderness, and love, 
For ever banished. Whither can I turn, 
When he by blood, by gratitude, by faith, 
By every tie bound to support, forsakes me? 
Who, who can stand, when Malek Adhel falls? 
Henceforth I turn me from the sweets of love, 
The smiles of friendship — and this glorious world, 
In which all find some heart to rest upon, 
Shall be to Saladin a cheerless void — 
His brother has betrayed him ! 

Mai. Ad. Thou art soften' d : 

I am thy brother, then ; but late thou saidst — 
My tongue can never utter the base title. 

Sal. Was it traitor ? True — 
Thou hast betray'd me in my fondest hopes. 
Villain ? 'Tis just, the title is appropriate. 
Dissembler ? 'Tis not written in thy face, 
No, nor imprinted on that specious brow, 
But on this breaking heart the name is stamp'd, 
For ever stamp'd, with that of Malek Adhel. 
Think'st thou I'm softened ? By Mahomet, these hands 
Should crush these aching eye-balls ere a tear 
Fall from them at thy fate ! — Oh monster, monster ! 
The brute that tears the infant from its nurse 
Is excellent to thee, for in his form 
The impulse of his nature may be read, — 
But thou, so beautiful, so proud, so noble, 
Oh, what a wretch art thou ! Oh ! can a term 
In all the various tongues of man be found 
To match thy infamy ? 

Mai. Ad. Go on, go on ; 

'Tis but a little while to hear thee, Saladin, 
And, bursting at thy feet, this heart will prove 
Its penitence at least. 

Sal. That were an end 

Too noble for a traitor ; the bow-string is 
A more appropriate finish — thou shalt die ! 



264 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

Mai. Ad. And death were welcome at another's man- 
date ! 
What, what have I to live for? Be it so, 
If that in all thy armies can be found 
An executing hand. 

Sal. O, doubt it not ! 

They're eager for the office. Perfidy, 
So black as thine, effaces from their minds 
All memory of thy former excellence. 

Mai. Ad. Defer not then their wishes. Saladin, 
If e'er this form was joyful to thy sight, 
This voice seem'd grateful to thine ear, accede 
To my last prayer — Oh, lengthen not this scene, 
To which the agonies of death were pleasing — 
Let me die speedily. 

Sal. This very hour ! 

(Aside.) For oh ! the more 1 look upon that face, 
The more I hear the accents of that voice, 
The monarch softens, and the judge is lost 
In all the brother's weakness; yet such guilt, 
Such vile ingratitude, it calls for vengeance, 
And vengeance it shall have ! What ho ! who waits there 1 
Enter Attendant. 

Aiten. Did your highness call ? 

Sal. Assemble quickly 

My forces in the court ! — tell them they come 
To view the death of yonder bosom-traitor : 
And bid them mark, that he who will not spare 
His brother when he errs, expects obedience, 
Silent obedience from his followers. [Exit Attendant. 

Mai. Ad. Now, Saladin, 
The word is given — I have nothing more 
To fear from thee, my brother — I am not 
About to crave a miserable life — 
Without thy love, thy honour, thy esteem, 
Life were a burthen to me : think not, either, 
The justice of thy sentence I would question : 
But one request now trembles on my tongue, 
One wish, still clinging round the heart, which soon 
Not even that shall torture — will it then, . 
Think'st thou, thy slumbers render quieter, 
Thy waking thoughts more pleasing, to reflect, 
That when thy voice had doom'd a brother's death, 
The last request which e'er was his to utter, 
Thy harshness made him carry to the grave ? 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 265 

Sal. Speak then ; but ask thyself if thou hast reason 
To look for much indulgence here. 

Mai. Ad. I have not! 

Yet will I ask for it. We part for ever ; 
This is our last farewell ; — the king is satisfied ; 
The judge has spoke th' irrevocable sentence : 
None sees, none hears, save that omniscient power, 
Which, trust me, will not frown to look upon 
Two brothers part like such — When in the face 
Offerees once my own, I'm led to death, 
Then be thine eye unmoisten'd, let thy voice 
Then speak my doom untrembling, then, 
Unmoved behold this stiff and blackened corse, 
But now I ask — nay, turn not, Saladin — 
I ask one single pressure of thy hand, 
From that stern eye one solitary tear — 
Oh torturing recollection ! one kind word 
From the loved tongue which once breathed nought but 

kindness. 
Still silent ? Brother ! — Friend — beloved companion 
Of all my youthful sports — are they forgotten ? — 
Strike me with deafness, make me blind, O Heaven ! 
Let me not see this unforgiving man 
Smile at my agonies — nor hear that voice 
Pronounce my doom, which would not say one word, 
One little word, whose cherish'd memory 
Would soothe the struggles of departing life — 
Yet, yet thou wilt — Oh turn thee, Saladin ! 
Look on my face, thou canst not spurn me then : 
Look on the once-loved face of Malek Adhel 
For the last time, and call him 

Sal. (seizing his hand.) Brother ! brother !- 



Mai. Ad. (breaking away.) Now call thy followers. 
Death has not now 
A single pang in store. Proceed! I'm ready. 

Sal. Oh, art thou ready to forgive, my brother, — 
To pardon him who found one single error, 
One little failing 'mid a splendid throng 
Of glorious qualities- 

Mai. Ad. Oh stay thee, Saladin ! 

I did not ask for life— I only wish'd 
To carry thy forgiveness to the grave. 
No, Emperor, the loss of Cesarea 
Cries loudly for the blood of Malek Adhel. 
Thy soldier's too, demand that he who lost 



266 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



What cost them many a weary hour to gain, 
Should expiate his offences with his life. 
Lo, even now they ciowd to view my death, 
Thy just impartiality — I go — 
Pleased by my fate to add one other leaf 
To thy proud wreath of glory. (Going.) 

Sal Thou shalt not. 

Enter Attendant. 

Atten. My Lord, the troops assembled by your order 
Tumultuous throng the courts — the Prince's death 
Not one of them but vows he will not suffer — 
The mutes have fled — thy very guards rebel — 
Nor think I in this city's spacious round, 
Can e'er be found a hand to do the office. 

Mai Ad. Oh, faithful friends! (To Atten.) Thine 
shalt. 

Atten. Mine ? — never ! — 

The other first shall lop it from the body. 

Sal They teach the Emperor his duty well. 
iTeii them he thanks them for it — tell them, too, 
That ere their opposition reach'd our ears, 
Saladin had forgiven Malek Adhel. 

Atten. Oh joyful news ! 

J haste to gladden many a gallant heart, 
And dry the tear on many a hardy cheek 
Unused to such a visitor. [Exit 

Sal These men, the meanest in society, 
The outcasts of the earth, — by war, by nature, 
Harden'd, and render'd callous — these, who claim i 
No kindred with thee — who have never heard 
The accents of affection from thy lips — 
Oh, these can cast aside their vowed allegiance, 
Throw off their long obedience, risk their lives, 
To save thee from destruction. While 1, 
I, who can not in all my memory 
Call back one danger which thou hast not shared, 
One day of grief, one night of revelry, 
Which thy resistless kindness hath not soothed, 
Or thy gay smile and converse render'd sweeter; 
I, who have thrice in the ensanguined field, 
When death seem'd certain, only utter'd — " Brother !'* 
And seen that form like lightning rush between 
Saladin and his foes — and that brave breast 
Dauntless exposed to many a furious blow 
Intended for my own — I could forget 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 267 

That 'twas to thee I owed the very breath 

Which sentenced thee to perish. Oh 'tis shameful ! 

Thou canst not pardon me. 

Mai. Ad. By these tears I can — 

Oh, brother ! from this very hour, a new, 
A glorious life commences — I am all thine. 
Again the day of gladness or of anguish 
Shall Malek Adhel share, and oft again 
May this sword fence thee in the bloody field. 
Henceforth, Saladin, 
My heart, my soul, my sword, are thine forever. 



SECTION CVIII. 

EXTRACT FROM AN ORATION DELIVERED AT BOSTON, 

july 5, 1830 Alexander H. Everett. 

The history of the free states of other times and coun- 
jies is not less fruitful in examples of the abuse than it is 
of the blessings of liberty. Greece and Rome — the Ital- 
ian Republics — Holland and the Commonwealth of Eng- 
land perished in this manner. But without revert- 
ing to the history of other times, we may find in that 
of the contemporary nations, who have copied our institu- 
tions, the most lamentable proofs of the danger of abusing 
them. The French Revolution will remain forever a 
standing beacon to warn succeeding generations of the 
horrors of anarchy. Almost every remarkable scene in 
Paris and its neighbourhood, is now the memorial of some 
atrocious crime. At the once magnificent palace of Ver- 
sailles, the seat of the glories of the brilliant period of the 
French monarchy, now an untenanted ruin, I saw the 
apartment into which a maddened populace were rushing 
to slaughter in her bed a young and beautiful queen, and 
where they would have effected their purpose, had not her 
body guards, by laying down their lives in her defence at 
the door, given her time to escape half naked through an op- 
posite entrance. As I walked through the long and dreary 
gaileries, in the subterranean quarries, or catacombs, which 
are now the repositories of the dead, and stretch along un- 
der the whole extent of Paris, as if in mockery of the gay 
crowds that are swarming through the streets of that bril- 
liant metropolis of fashion a few feet above, I remarked 



268 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 



place separated from the rest, and dedicated by a suitable 
inscription to the memory of the victims of the second of 
September. On that accursed day, a band of ruffians, em- 
ployed by the municipal authorities of Paris, went round, 
in succession, to the several prisons, which had previously 
been crowded, for this purpose, with the flower and pride 
of the first circles of society, and, after a mock trial, deliv- 
ered them over to the infuriate popQlace, who were ready 
at the door to destroy them. Among these victims was a 
beautiful, pious, and accomplished princess of the royal 
family. The populace of a city, which is commonly re- 
garded as the capital of civilization, tore her body limb 
from limb, devoured her heart upon the spot, and having 
placed her head upon the point of a pike, paraded it in tri- 
umph through the streets, and held it up before the window 
of the apartment in which the king and queen were con- 
lined, at the Temple. "Oh Liberty!" — was the too just 
exclamation ot the beautiful and accomplished Madame 
Roland, herself one of the most interesting victims of this 
reign of terror, as she passed, on her way to the Guillotine, 
the statue which had taken the place of that of Louis XV. 
on the public Square, that was before called by his name — 
" Oh Liberty ! — what crimes are not committed in thy 
name 1" What was the sequel of all these high aspirations 
— these agonizing efforts — these horrid sacrifices? An 
iron despotism. When I first visited France, in 1812, the 
kingdom wore the appearance of a vast military encamp- 
ment. The whole frontier was guarded, like the outposts 
of a fortified town. I was obliged to remain a fortnight at 
the port where I landed, before I could obtain a passport, 
with which to travel to the capital. In passing through 
the country, 1 found it studded with barracks and bristling 
with bayonets. The flower of the population had already 
been enlisted in the armies ; and new decrees were contin- 
ually issued, requiring the sacrifice of fresh victims to the 
Moloch of political ambition. On reaching the capital, 
I was struck with the fearful stillness that reigned through 
its vast and populous streets. A settled gloom hung on 
every countenance. Every man looked with suspicion on 
his neighbour. No one ventured to speak above a whisper 
on important subjects ; or to trust his secret thoughts to 
the friend of his bosom. I saw the tyrant himself as he 
made his appearance one night at the theatre. A few 
hired plaudits accompanied his entrance ; but he knew in 
his heart, that there was not an individual present, except 



ME CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 269 

his own myrmidons, who did not long for his death. At 
the height of power and grandeur, he was more wretched 
than the meanest peasant in his dominions. A sort of 
madness already possessed his brain, and within a few 
days he went forth at the head of an army of a million of 
men, collected from all parts of Europe, to encounter his 
ruin. He had been an instrument, in the hands of Provi- 
dence, to punish his countrymen for the abuse of liberty, 
but his mission was accomplished. The breath of heaven 
scattered his forces, and sent their leader to die in lingering 
torments on a burning rock upon the coast of Africa. 
What fearful lessons, if men could ever grow wise by the 
experience of others ! 



SECTION CIX. 

CHARACTER OF SIR HUDIBRAS S. Butk?\ 

We grant, although he had much wit, 

H' was very shy of using it, 

As being loth to wear it out, 

And therefore bore it not about ; 

Unless on holy-days, or so, 

As men their best apparel do. 

Besides, 'tis known he could speak Greek 

As naturally as pigs squeak ; 

That Latin was no more difficile, 

Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle : 

Being rich in both, he never scanted 

His bounty unto such as wanted ; 

But much of either would afford 

To many that had not one word. 

For Hebrew roots, although they're found 

To nourish most in barren ground, 

He had such plenty, as suffic'd 

To make some think him circumcis'd. 

He was in logic a great critic. 
Profoundly skill'd in analytic ; 
He could distinguish, and divide 
A hair 'twixt south and south-west side ; 
On either which he would dispute, 
Confute, change hands, and still confute : 
He'd undertake to prove, by force 
Of argument, a man 's no horse ; 
Z 



27G THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER, 

He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl, 

And that a lord may be an owl : 

A calf an alderman, a goose a justice, 

And rooks committee-men and trustees. 

He'd run in debt by disputation, 

And pay with ratiocination : 

All this by syllogism, true 

In mood and figure, he would do. 

For rhetoric, he could not ope 

His mouth, but out there flew a trope ; 

And when he happen'd to break off 

I' th' middle of his speech, or cough, 

H' had hard words ready to show why, 

And tell what rules he did it by ; 

Else when with greatest art he spoke, 

You'd think he talk'd like other folk; 

For all a rhetorician's rules 

Teach nothing but to name his tools. 

But, when he pleased to show 't, his speech, 

In loftiness of sound, was rich : 

A Babylonish dialect, 

Which learned pedants much affect ; 

It was a party-colour'd dress 

Ofpatch'd and piebald languages ; 

5 Twas English cut on Greek and Latin, 

Like fustian heretofore on satin ; 

It had an old promiscuous tone, 

As if h' had talk'd three parts in one; 

Which made some think when he did gabble, 

Th' had heard three labourers of Babel, 

Or Cerberus himself pronounce 

A leash of languages at once. 

This he as volubly would vent, 

As if his stock would ne'er be spent ; 

And truly, to support that charge, 

He had supplies as vast and large ; 

For he could coin or counterfeit 

New words, with little or no wit ; 

Words so debas'd and hard, no stone 

Was hard enough to touch them on ; 

And when with hasty noise he spoke 'em, 

The ignorant for current took 'em ; 

That had the orator, who once 

Did fill his mouth with pebble stones 

When he harangued, but known his phrase, 

He would have used no other ways. 



THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 271 



SECTION CX. 

EXTRACT FROM AN ADDRESS AT CHARLESTOWN, JUNE 28, 
1830, ON THE SECOND CENTENNIAL ANNITERSARY OF THE 

arrival of gov. winthrop E. Everett. 

The venerable foundations of our republic, fellow-citi- 
zens, were laid on the very spot, where we stand ; by the 
fathers of Massachusetts. Here, before they were able to 
erect a suitable place for worship, they were wont, beneath 
the branches of a spreading tree, to commend their wants, 
their sufferings, and their hopes to him, that dwelleth not 
in houses made with hands ; here they erected their first 
habitations ; here they gathered their first church ; here they 
made their first graves. 

Yes, on the very spot where we are assembled, crowned 
with this spacious church ; surrounded by the comfortable 
abodes of a dense population; there were, during the first 
season, after the landing of Winthrop, fewer dwellings for 
the living, than graves for the dead. It seemed the will of 
Providence, that our fathers should be tried, by the extrem- 
ities of either season. When the Pilgrims approached the 
coast of Plymouth, they found it clad with all the terrors 
of a northern winter : — 

The sea around was black with storms, 
And white the shores with snow. 

We can scarcely now think, without tears, of a compa- 
ny of men, women, and children, brought up in tender- 
ness, exposed after several months uncomfortable confine- 
ment on ship-board, to the rigours of our November and 
December sky, on an unknown, barbarous coast, whose 
frightful rocks, even now, strike terror into the heart of the 
returning mariner ; though he knows that the home of his 
childhood awaits him, within their enclosure. 

The Massachusetts company arrived at the close of June. 
No vineyards, as now, clothed our inhospitable hill-sides ; 
no blooming orchards, as at the present day, wore the liv- 
ery of Eden, and loaded the breeze with sweet odours ; 
no rich pastures nor waving crops stretched beneath the 
eye, along the way side, from village to village, as if nature 
had been spreading her halls with a carpet, fit to be pressed 
by the footsteps of her descending God ! The beauty and 
the bloom of the year had passed. The earth, not yet 



272 THE CLASSICAL SPEAKER. 

subdued by culture, bore upon its untilled bosom nothing 
but a dismal forest, that mocked their hunger with rank 
and unprofitable vegetation. The sun was hot in the heav- 
ens. The soil was parched, and the hand of man had not 
yet taught its secret springs to flow from their fountains. 
The wasting disease of the heart-sick mariner was upon 
the men ; — and the women and children thought of the 
pleasant homes of England, as they sunk down from day 
to day, and died at last for want of a cup of cold water, in 
this melancholy land of promise. 

We are gathered over the ashes of our forefathers. It 
is good, but solemn to be here. We live on holy ground : 
all our hill-tops are the altars of precious sacrifice : 

This is stored with the sacred dust of the first victims in 
the cause of liberty. 

And that is rich from the life stream of the noble hearts, 
who bled to sustain it. 

Here beneath our feet, unconscious that we commemo- 
rate their worth, repose the meek and sainted martyrs, 
whose flesh sunk beneath the lofty temper of their noble 
spirits ; and there rest the heroes, who presented their 
dauntless foreheads to the God of battles, when he came 
to his awful baptism of blood and fire. 

Happy the fate, which has laid them so near to each 
other, the early and the latter champions of the one great 
cause ! And happy we, who are permitted to reap in peace 
the fruit of their costly sacrifice ! Happy, that we can 
make our pious pilgrimage to the smooth turf of that ven- 
erable summit, once ploughed with the wheels of madden- 
ing artillery, ringing with all the dreadful voices of war, 
wrapped in smoke and streaming with blood ! Happy, that 
here where our fathers sunk, beneath the burning sun, into 
the parched clay, we live, and assemble, and mingle sweet 
counsel, and grateful thoughts of them, in comfort and 
peace. 






